


Tales From Arda

by allonsytotumblr



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Black Númenoreans, Blue Wizards - Freeform, Character Study, Cuddling & Snuggling, Death, Drowning, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Easterlings, Explanations, F/M, Female Character of Color, Feminist Themes, Fire, Free Verse, Gen, Gondolin, Grief, Halls of Mandos, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Murder, Northern Lights, Númenor, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, Past Relationship(s), Poetry, Rejection, Ruling Queens, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Bonding, Songwriting, Sorrow, Sparring as a metaphor for sexual tension, Swordplay, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unrequited Love, Visions, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-01-04 05:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytotumblr/pseuds/allonsytotumblr
Summary: A collection of all my Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings stories posted in non-chronological order.





	1. Index of Fics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FICS 2-7 WERE WRITTEN IN 2015 WHEN I WAS A TRASH WRITER, SO KEEP THAT IN MIND PLEASE, THANKS.

Summary of Fics:

02\. "In Darkness Wandering"- Morwen and Húrin reunite at their children's grave ere her death.

03\. "Flames" - Idril watches Gondolin burn.

04\. "Invisible Suspenders: Sometimes Elves Write Songs,"- Maedhros and Fingon get drunk and write a song.

05\. "Waiting"- In the Halls of Mandos, Fëanor has as message for Nerdanel.

06\. "Hunting"- Larnach's Daughter kills her would-be rapist.

07\. "Hope and Healing" - Brandir provides Níniel a moment of comfort. 

08\. "Sleeping Arrangements"- It is not Fëanor's fault that there is only one bed. 

09\. "Burning"- Arien's experience following the death of the trees. 

10\. "Drinking Games" - Aegnor and Andreth test their alcohol tolerance.

11\. "Meetings"- A young Fëanor goes to great lengths to 'accidentally,' meet Nerdanel on one of her journeys.

12\. "Shining" - Tilion's thoughts on Arien and being the moon spirit. Companion piece to Burning. 

13\. "Visions"- Nerdanel has a surprising premonition. She definitely does not have a crush on Fëanor though. 

14\. "Sparring"- Nerdanel tries to deal with her romantic emotions and Fëanor teaches her how to fight.

15\. "Varda's Lights"- Fëanor and Nerdanel go look at the sky and stuff.

16\. "A Dancing Queen"- The third ruling queen is more than she seems. 

17\. "Observing,"- Fingolfin visits Fëanor in Mahtan's forge, which annoys the latter greatly, as he just wants to stealthily stare at Nerdanel.

18\. "The Sundering Sea," - 'Erendis perished in the water in the year 985,'- Aldarion and Erendis, The Book of Lost Tales. But she did not die because she missed Aldarion.

19\. "The Right to Rule"- "She is purely herself, complete, Tar-Telperiën, not needing another, not wanting. She only lusts for life, the longest quality of it that she can get." The life of the second Ruling Queen.

20\. "Call Me Ruler"- "Two hundred and five years she holds the scepter, vowing to outlast her enemies, and solidify her place in the history books with this, if nothing else, so that she cannot be written out, only a name on a genealogy." Tar-Ancalimë rules. 

21\. "Imagining Things"- Nerdanel is very bad at dealing with feelings and Fëanor shows her something he's made.

22\. "A Witchy Queen"- Tar-Míriel gains power for herself, finally. 

23\. "This Sickness, Love"-Andreth is sick and Aegnor tries to help. They both repress their feelings with varying success. 

24\. "This Hard Earth"- Emeldir leads her people. It is not always easy.

25\. "Accounts of Valor"- Young Éowyn wishes that history were different. 

26\. "Lost Trees"- What happened to the Ent Wives.

27\. "Silver and Black"- Queen Berúthiel goes south, home.

28\. "Warmth"- Traveling in Valinor can be cold. Fëanor and Nerdanel have a solution. Well she does at least. Feanor's pleasantly surprised.  

29\. "A Proposal"- An offer, and answer, and what it means for both of them. 

30\. "To Sleep-"  "The dead call to Rían and she answers them, not wholly willingly, like a parent, roused in the night by the cries of her child, knowing that, should she ignore it, the consequences will be much worse." How she really died.

31\. "To the East I Go Not"- “Behave or the Easterlings will get you,” is a common enough saying in the west. No equivalent of this saying exists in the east, for the Easterlings have never found it necessary or kind to threaten their children with kidnaping and violence to get them to behave. 


	2. In Darkness Wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morton and Húrin reunite at their children's grave ere her death.

I have journeyed for so long. So long walking this path seeking my children. But had I know what lay at its end, not my kin found at last, not light or hope, but this, this cold, gray, lifeless stone. My eyes trace the words again.

Túrin Turambar, Master of Doom, it reads and yet you could not master death.

Nienor Níniel, Maid of Tears, was yours still a sorrowful fate after I lost you that hellish night with Glaurung?

Why do their names stand side-by-side? Did they meet ere death? Or in death only are they united? But none answer me.

Anguish seems to read my heart; I cannot turn away and yet, I do not weep. Would that I had died a thrall in Hithlum, a happier fate than that which is now mine, to mourn for husband, daughters and son.

A sunrise and a sunset have I kept a sort of vigil here, my voice uplifted in lament for those taken from me. The sun has begun to set again. I wish it would not for in shadow my grief is sharper and my sorrow more immense. The elves do not hate the dark, for, they say, only in darkness can the stars be seen. But darkness is cold and dead, faraway starlight gives no warmth.

My strength is nearly gone; death is close but it does not take my yet. My spirit is waiting for something. What action is yet unfulfilled? I do not know and cannot guess.

Perceiving some figure coming to stand at the base of the stone at which is sit, I draw my hood over my face, and gaze downward. But back my cloak is cast, by some foul wind and lifting my hand to pull it down once more, I behold the stranger in front of me. Tall, sorrow-hardened not but withered as I, his eyes lit with recognition.

Húrin.

How? I thought him dead but yet he lives! Alas that our paths should cross with mine so near its end.

"You are too late, they are lost." I speak bitterly.

Kneeling down beside me he says," The road was dark, I have come as I could. And you, Mowen, you are not."

"I am almost. When the light is gone I shall be also."

And so we sit, in silence, watching the sky turn vivid orange, blood red and fiery gold. The sun is departing and my time here wanes. I try to speak, to tell Húrin that I am sorry that we must meet like this at the graves of our children, that I must leave him now.

As I begin he cuts me off, "Hush, I know what you would say. But tell me Morwen Eledhwen, when I come to those halls beyond the western sky, where all men must go, will you be there waiting me?"

With my final words, I promise, "Yes that we may depart world and together go to seek them."

All has been said. This day ends and so do I.

I clasp his hand, sigh, and turning my face to the brilliant, sinking sun, I sleep.


	3. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iddil watches Gondolin burn.

It is not the first time Idril has seen beauty devoured by fire. That first time is perfectly clear in her memory. She was so young then, when she stood on the shore of the large, black swath of water that was the ocean, staring at the red lights of the fire as it burned away their hopes of passage. The night is perfectly clear, and yet that fire had not seemed to scorch her very soul as it does now. Of course it had worried her then, the weeping of adults, the cursing of her relative Fëanor's name, and then the freezing cold during the crossing of the hardened sea; of course Idril had not liked any of that.

But now - to watch her Gondolin burn, the pain far surpasses what she had felt so many centuries ago.

The strangling group of fleeing survivors has made it far enough from the city that danger is no longer imminent, but still the city is visible, a blot of fire on the near horizon, its smoke rising up and obscuring the stars. Idril has stopped walking, standing slightly to the side of the stream of refugees, allowing herself the briefest of moments to turn back towards her beloved city. Her elven sight is sharp and it is as visible as if she stood directly outside the wall.

Gondolin... There she had used to play at being back in Valinor, sometimes on a fine midsummer's day, sitting in one of the many gardens, she could make believe the sunlight was really that of Laurelin's light.

Elves, because they themselves are eternal, sometimes think that the things they make will be too. They forget that all things end, all kingdoms fall; and it is because they have let themselves forget this truth that the bitterness of the ending is the greater.

Her father is in that city somewhere, he has chosen death with his kingdom rather than life without.

There she spent most of her life: fallen in love, borne a child. All of it gone, disappearing, changing into smoke and ashes.

The river of refugees flows on behind her; she knows she must turn away from the conflagration, towards the blackness that leads towards uncertainty - where will they go now? What kingdom will take them, and even if a refuge is found, will it prove safe from the attacks of the enemy?

"Idril." A voice behind her. Tuor's. "I came back to look for you; we are not so far away yet that our foes may not spread out to search the surroundings. Earendil is safe with his nurse," he adds before she can ask.

Earendil, her beloved child; the line of Fingolfin has survived the flames.

"Where will we go?" she asks bleakly, not turning away. Not yet.

"Southward," says he, "to Nan-tathren, the land of the willows.

The words are meaningless to her; she has never heard of this land, but she trusts Tuor and at least now she has a destination; some place on which to keep her thoughts anchored on the long road the following days will bring.

There will be time for grief later, when they have reached this other place. But for now she must be strong for her people, she is now their queen, Idril realizes. They will look to her for hope, strength, and courage and she will do her best to embody all those things.

Idril turns away from the smoldering ashes of her ruined city and walks, with Tuor at her side, towards tomorrow.


	4. Invisible Suspenders: Sometimes Elves Write Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros and Fingon get drunk and write a song. The song was graciously written for me by Peregrine Took The Falcon.

Maedhros and Fingon were writing a song in praise of the former's flowing, red hair. This desicion had been much influenced by the fact that they had both been drinking. If one was being poetical you would say, "They were drowning in the fruits of the vine." If not you would say something along on the lines of, "They were drunk as Angband."

This song was to have no words because as Fingon put it, "Verily, my friend there are no words neither in the tongue of the Valar or in ours that can accurately describe you hair's majesty." This speech was an indication of really how drunk he was because while sober he would have never admitted anything of the kind. Also they were too inebriated to think up words.

They really had no idea how to write music; however this fact was not viewed as a deterrent in the least. 

When they were finished Maedhros and Fingon wrote semi-legibly at the top: An Instrumental Composition Glorying the Tresses of Maedhros by the Same and Fingon, Who Has Pretty Nice Hair for a One Fourth Vanya We Guess.

"Beautiful," said Maedhros and passed out.

"A masterful composition," added Fingon and followed suit.

The next morning Maglor discovered the two, "Fingon?! Wow, Dad would certainly be enraged if he were to discover this!" 

To prevent Maglor from taking this course of action, Maedhros threatened with the worst he could think of, "I'll tell Dad you like Teleri music better than our people's and he'll believe me, you know he will!"

Maglor, in order to avoid this, helped destroy the evidence: Fingon was pushed out the servants' entrance and the brothers hid the many empty bottles by throwing them into a bush under Maedhros' window.

And while they were looking around for other incriminating stuff Maglor found the 'Composition.' "Hey, what's this? Is this supposed to be music?" Maedhros tried to retrieve it but Maglor shouted: "This is my price for silence, brother!" and ran down the hall with it, past a very surprised Fëanor who had come up from his forge to see what all the noise was about.

But what did happen with that infamous piece of music? Maglor would play it outside Maedhros' window on dark nights and would sneak away just before someone else in the family would yell, "Stop that noise before I stop your breath!" Usually it was blamed on the Ambarussa who had done similar things in the past. 

During the Flight of the Noldor the 'Composition' was finally retrieved by Maedhros. Right after all the oath taking and drama Fëanor was pretty keen to leave immediately, because the Valar were pretty displeased and also when you start a rebellion it's best to storm out dramatically as soon as possible. This left no time for packing because no one had been expecting anything of the sort. The chaos allowed Maedhros to nab the sheet of music from Maglor's room.

This really was not as effective as he had hoped, because Maglor had already memorized it and would hum it to Maedhros under his breath on the journey and Maedhros was unable to get back at him in anyway because Fëanor did not allow any fighting, "Look we've all abandoned everything except each other, killed some people, and I am not having any fratricide in my rebellion, boys!"

The sheet of music traveled with Maedhros through out the journey to Middle-earth and after the, "I thought I would bargain with the very guy my Dad told me emphatically never to deal with and then I got hung up on a cliff for a long time until my blond friend rescued me," affair, Maedhros though he should send Fingon some "Hey thanks for saving my life," presents and, as a joke, he included the music sheet. Fingon thought this was extremely funny and he played it for his whole court (he'd learned to play the harp.) They though it was atrocious, not getting the inside joke, but Fingon got a kick out of playing it and he'd perform it to annoy his couriers sometimes or when he was bored which was often; Middle-earth wasn't all Fëanor had made it out to be.

When Fingon found some humans in the woods and crashed their camping trip he decide to see if they liked it. "Hey, they look savage; it's savage sounding music," he figured.

Well the men loved it. This was the first piece of elven music they'd had ever heard, played by the most beautiful...man? Woman? (They couldn't quite figure out which one, but the music was lovely either way.)

They liked it so much that they passed it right down through the second and third age and when Hobbits appeared from who knows where, the men played it for them as well, calling it "An Old Ancient Elven Tune From Antiquity."

It was a hit with the Halflings too, even if they didn't know what 'Antiquity' meant. So they called it "Elf Music." It was played at the 111th birthday party of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, by a special request made by an elf guest, Maglor, who had gotten pretty bored of singing about pain and despair on a beach and had taken to crashing parties, and getting as drunk as he could instead. It is one thing to shout "Until the end of days," and another to spend all that time in Middle-earth, even for an elf.

There Bilbo's cousin, Frodo, danced to it as if he was wearing invisible suspenders (who knows how much he'd been drinking) and afterwards the name was changed to 'The Invisible Suspenders Dance.'

II. The Song Itself! 

AN: Peregrin Took the Falcon, wrote some words to the song, some words our heroes might have written if they'd skipped the last bottle.

 

An Instrumental and Vocal Composition Glorying the Tresses of Maedhros by the Same and Fingon, Who Has Pretty Nice Hair for a One-Fourth-Vanya, We Guess

Red is his hair,

Like roses on snow,

The lovely bright red

Of an overripe, squishy, juicy, deliciously sweet tomato.

Maedhros says

That's a bad turn of phrase,

But I personally think

That we're both so Valar-blasted inebriated that it doesn't matter anyways.

And Maedhros says

That it's both of our poem,

But I say instead,

That I'm the one doing all the work anyway, even if it is Russandol's home.

But anyway, back to his

And the glare

When the sun shines upon it

Is so awfully bright that it hurts to look at it, and all the maidens fawn on it.

And now Maedhros says

That that wasn't quite elegant,

But at this point in the poem, and the wine,

Which by the way is delcious and the perfect thing while composing a great masterpiece such as this, anyway right now all his concerns are irrelevant.

And the resplendent glory Of his hair under the moon

Is more than enough

To make any maiden, even the ones who are chasing Cousin Finrod because he has golden hair like Grandmother and yet is still a Noldo, whom everyone knows are the best elf-kindred of all; as I was saying, to make any maiden swoon.

Maedhros is saying

That I'd better write faster

Because we've drunk so much wine now

That he says we're going to emulate those maidens I was talking about before we finish this composition, and that would be a disaster.

Maedhros's hair

Is so hard to compare

To anything else under Laurelin

Because really, there's nothing quite like it anywhere and Maedhros gets offended if you discuss it in a way he considers an imperfect description, and since his glorious russet tresses beggar description, you really just have to see them for yourself, because an analogy can never win.


	5. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the halls of Mandos, Fëanor has a message for Nerdanel.

Nerdanel sighs in frustration, gazing at the sculpture she is attempting to create. Of course even if she had more that memories to base Telperion off of, the beautiful tree would be hard to bring out of stone.

But she keeps at it to distract herself from the anniversary of today. The Flight of the Noldor. Another year since she lost most of her kin and those seven most precious to her. Already one has perished but she did not count him amongst those seven. Mere months has passed since the Eagles of Manwë brought news for Fëanor's death. His spirit of fire by fire slain. Nerdanel did not mourn him much, for she had lost Fëanor long before he forsook Valinor.  
There are moments though, in the cold ever present darkness that shrouds Aman, when she longs again for his fire, to hear his voice, to feel his bright gaze upon her once more.

When these thoughts come, she drives them away, wanting to believe that it is only for memory's ghost that some shadow of love remains with in her.

A knock at her studio's door, pierces her dark thoughts. Her hand involuntarily shifts, the chisel it holds creating a gouge in her sculpture's roots. Now she will have to carve off quite a bit to even it out.

The sound comes again. Putting down her tool and crossing the room, she unlocks and opens the door. She beholds a tall personage, his hair white as marble, but the pupils of his eyes black as obsidian. Upon his breast is displayed the crest of Mandos. A messenger. Nerdanel greets him respectfully.

"You are the wife of Fëanor." It comes as a statement, not a question. The title stings, she has ceased to be called that and will only name herself Mahtan's daughter. In casting off Fëanor's name she hoped to rid herself of the past's memories also but they are not so easily banished.

"I was once." Several lifetimes ago.

"I bring a message from one that dwells in my lord's halls."

"Fëanor?"

"The same."

"It was not known to me that Mandos suffered the dead to contact to the living, nor that his emissaries would bear those tidings."

Why Fëanor? What have you to say to me? More scorn? Or news of my sons?

"'Tis suffered only when a fëa will never again be reborn."

Of course. If rebirth is withheld it is rightly so, but mayhap he remains of his own will. 

The same choice as Miriel, she reflects. Do mother and son meet in that place of waiting? Does Miriel see what her child has become? He whose birth cost her life, now a scorner of the Valar, stained with the blood of his kin.

Emerging for her dark musings, she says to the herald, "Speak on! What words does he bid you tell me?"

"He would see you again," the messenger's gaze is unwavering, "His mood is changed and he seeks your forgiveness."

A flame of anger seems to light inside her. Forgiveness! Then let his penance be returning her sons! How can he think to atone for everything he did to her, and others in life, leading so many off, the Teleri's bloodied shores and burned ships?

Of course forgiveness is only the messenger's guess, she does not think his mood would ever change, not in an eternity.

But will she go? Will she see him one last time? Nay, she could not bear it, there is too much between them. In lonely moments her weak mind fained see him again but now, the choice at hand, she finds her decision different.

The unspoken question hangs in the air.

"If you will," her voice so deadly sharp that it surprises her, "I shall not see Fëanor."

"I see. I shall pass on your message." The herald bows and departs.

Nerdanel is alone.

Perhaps she will feel differently at the ending of the world but until then, "Let him wait," she whispers into the silence, turning back to her work.

II.

Death is cold. It is ironic, for he died in fire, his spirt burning his body to ashes but here none of that warmth remains. Fëanor wishes for a strong fire, one inside a forge, for tools and metal, for anything to take to help pass eternity. But it is an idle dream, his physical body is gone and he is reduced to a mere spirit. The only distraction is memory- both welcome and not. On first arriving here he expected to face torment for his deeds but Mandos only bid him, "Go and find what peace you can."

Fëanor cannot tell how long he has been here, perhaps and eon, a day or only a fleeting moment.

These halls are different then he imagined. In life, when he deined to think of death at all, he imagined them as a drafty room filled with souls, and he grieved that his mother had chosen to spend all of eternity there. He imagined wrong. The halls are black and cold, yes, but they are many, a place of obsidian walls. On them hand Vairë's weavings, masterful pictures if the Music of the Ainur, the Chaining of Melkor.

There are other souls here, but he does not seek their company. Fëanor cares not for their words or their pity if they would offer it. There is one he sought to speak with, but she is far away, in the land of the Valor and the living, and scorns him.

I will not come. Her words, delivered through the herad seem to ring through the cold halls of the dead. Fëanor imagines her, her coppery brown hair falling over her face as she brings some figure out if stone, refusing his request. She was always proud, but 'tis his fault, their estrangement, he was fire and once burned one will not reach for flame again. And yet, despite all his actions he loves her still. He does not wholly regret what he did, not yet, perhaps eons of nothing but reflection in Mandos will change his mind. He did wish to see Nerdanel once more and to give her news of their sons. Valinor is closed and naught can come from Arda; he thought she would wish to know that, at least, they live, at present, though they may come to Mandos in their turns.

He missed her, during those ages spent in Arda; longed for her by his side. It was beautiful there, not the beauty of Aman, lit by the Trees' brilliant light, no its beauty was in its wild lands, it's untamed forests, wide rivers and the stars, their ever-burning light blazing over head, as beautiful as Laurelin and Telperion's radiance, in their own way.  
Nerdanel had always loved journeying, wandering to the farthest ends of Valinor; she would have loved Middle-earth, a world hardly touched by elven civilization.

Fate is cruel. To send him on his far flung crusade and then to slay him so quickly before his goal was even nigh accomplished. To never allow him to make good on his promises of vengeance wrought upon Morgoth and the Noldor's treasures restored.

In his oath he spoke of forever and now he has it- eternity to wait and ponder the turning path of his life that has led him here, to these dark halls, to wait until the ending of the world.


	6. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Larnach's daughter kills her would be rapist.

The man who saved her told her to leave. More than that, he rebuked her for straying so far from her home.

But Larnach's daughter cannot, will not, do that. Not after what those two men did to her. How dare they, how dare they try to disgrace her, her. Hildis feels her blood boiling inside her veins, the anger scorching her vision red. One of them is already dead, and the man she spoke to would not kill the other one. But it is well; she will.

She follow the outlaws through the forest, silently. These woods are known so well to her; she is a hunter, and she can walk quietly, stalking prey. Hildis has lost her bow, when the men chased her she dropped it, foolishly loosing her wits to terror, but she still has the knife she uses to skin the animals she catches.

It is better, that she should kill him with a knife. She wants to see in his eyes, the terror, the panic, the pain she is causing him, before his spirt leaves his body forever.

She cannot do it in sight on the other men, who knows if they would interfere. She must get him alone.

This chance comes sooner then she thought. Night is half fallen, not quite dark or light, and everything has a purplish gray cast. The men make camp for the night. Her attacker is sent to gather wood; the new leader may not have killed him but he will most likely be set to doing the tasks of the group for a while.

No, he won't.

The man walks away from his band, farther and farther. Anticipation floods her body, Now! Now! Not yet, says reason. If he cries out, it cannot be heard. Of course they will find the body eventually but she will be away in time. And they will never suspect her, the damsel in distress.

Hildis follows the man, creeping closer and closer, she will have surprise on her side, and she wants to startle him. She's right behind him, and the steel is cold in her hand, soon to be warm with shed life. She breathes pure adrenaline.

He finally senses something and turns.

She stabs him, so fast he cannot react, cannot scream. It is different, she reflects, then shooting an animal. The knife does not enter as smoothly into the body as she thought. She feels it pass through muscle and fat, she feels it graze a rib, feels the reverberation in her arm, feels the hot shower of crimson life pouring over her clothes, the ground and her right arm. The heart, she feels that too, its vibrations, squirming under the knife and then slowing. And stopping.

Her own heart beats, once again, peacefully. Relief floods her body like cool water. It is done. She can breathe again.

The knife is buried completely up to the hilt and has to be wrenched out, again scraping a rib as it slides free. She cleans it on the grass. And walks back in the direction she came, to find her lost bow.

"Did you get anything on your hunting trip, Hildis?" Her father asks of her, a day later at their evening meal.

She examines her right hand holding a fork, not a knife, now. There are traces or vermillion under her nails that she cannot get out and the faint tang of his blood still on her skin. "No father," she replies, "nothing worth keeping." 

Only vermin.


	7. Hope and Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandir provides Níniel a moment of comfort.

It is past midnight when Brandir awakens.

It was Níniel's cry that woke him. She cries out again, her sleeping form twisting the bed clothes. Cursing his slowness, he rises, crossing the room to sit on the edge of her cot. She must be having one of her nightmares. The storm outside must trouble her; she was found, dying, on the night of such a storm as this. Maybe, in the darkness of sleep, the evil that took her speech and memory stalks her still.

Níniel weeps softly, her sobs a pathetic sound against the tempest outside. Her face is so pale, so childlike in the dim light. He should fetch Túrin, then she would sleep peacefully...something which he does not understand; Túrin's presence is not a soothing one...but it is so late, and, well - Brandir is the healer, not Túrin.

Recalling some memory from his childhood, he reaches out his arm and places it around her shoulders, pulling her closer until her head rests lightly on his chest. Then he begins to sing: some lullaby he can remember from childhood. The words are elvish and, though he doesn't know the meanings of most, they are lovely all the same. Eventually Níniel becomes quiet and her breathing becomes more rhythmic. Of course the reasons for this have more to do with the touch and voice of another than with Brandir personally, yet he can not help but feel satisfied as he settles her back down on the cot.

Gazing at her sleeping face, his thoughts turn to Túrin. He seems to be here almost every day, underfoot until the leech-women turn him out. Brandir wonders if it is more than concern for his foundling that draws him. Has he noticed how beautiful she is, even in illness? For some strange reason, Brandir hopes he has not; but how can it have escaped his notice...she is lovely. Of course Túrin has every right to have whatever feelings he chooses towards this woman and it is not his affair, Brandir tells himself sternly.

Outside, the tempest blows itself into nothingness and the moon emerges, full and luminous, from behind the clouds, its brightness coming through the windows of his house, washing everything with silver light. Níniel stirs and, looking up at Brandir...who remains by her, to make sure she rests untroubled...her blue eyes tracing his face in the near dawn gloom, whispers "Turambar?", the name Túrin is called and the only word she knows.

"Brandir," he answers, pointing to himself and hoping she will pick up the meaning of his word. She seems to recognize his name, at least, and, looking contented, sleeps again. As dawn comes and the sun thrusts its bright rays over the horizon, chasing away the shadows of night, it seems to bring hope with it as well. This maid of tears shall come out of her darkness and into the light of healing, and when she does, it is he, Brandir, that will be by her side.


	8. Sleeping Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not Feanor's fault that there is only one bed.

The sleeping arrangements were absolutely, positively not Fëanor's fault. There was no way that he could have foreseen that the cave Nerdanel and he were planning to spend the night in would be unable to be found, a cartographer's faulty calculation, not his.

He was equally blameless for the weather; in the absence of a cave they decided to sleep outside, a plan which had succeeded had it not rained, a torrential downpour which soaked the companions along with all their supplies.

And when they had managed to walk through the terrible weather to a rather shabby inn, no actions on Fëanor's part had resulted in the fact that the landlord, woken up by their repeated knocks, could only offer them one room- with one bed.

Fëanor could have told the innkeeper who he was- for surely, wet and road worn he did not appear as a prince of the Noldor- and used his high station to secure better accommodations, but he knew that Nerdanel would be furious at this churlish behavior, and he accepted the given room without complaint. The bed itself was not so bad, it was the fact that it existed stubbornly in the singular, rather than the plural.

He offered, of course to take the floor, but Nerdanel asked him why he would do such a thing, as their bedrolls are soaked through from the rain, and this would be quite unpleasant and unconducive to sleep. Surely he was as exhausted as she?

"Well yes," he answered, "But we are not, I mean that it is not proper that we should share a bed." While journeying in the wild they often sleep side by side, but on separate bed roles, not together-

"I care not, Fëanor!" She answered, climbing into the bed. "Insist on being prudish if you wish, but do it silently so that I at least may rest." She pulled a pillow over her head, ignoring him, and proceeded to sleep.

Fëanor deliberated- silently as she had asked. Finally, mostly in the interest of proving her wrong- he was not prudish, he laid down, as far away from her as possible.

But sleep was harder to come by than he expected. Firstly, Fëanor had not realized how much one moved when falling asleep: turning over, adjusting of blankets, things hardly noticeable when he slept alone, are now seized on by his mind, and Fëanor is sure that his every action disturbed her. He resolved to stop shifting altogether, and commanded himself: sleep.

However, he is not only bothered by physical discomforts. Surely, surely, it would be easier to sleep if he was sharing a bed with a female relative, or an unrelated maiden, with someone whom he did not have decidedly romantic feelings for. But he is sharing a bed with Nerdanel, and thus his feelings are there- unwelcome, ridiculous- nonetheless.

He had loved her, with all the fiery passion of youth ever since their first meeting, when one of his first days apprenticed to Mahtan, as he worked, a red haired maiden, some senior apprentice, came up to him, scrutinized his project, and announced, "Your technique of chiseling is faulty."

"I can assure you," Feanor had replied, stung, "that my technique is perfectly adequate."

"Nay. If you were to hold the chisel in your hand thus," Nerdanel took the tool from him and demonstrated a different hand hold, "You would achieve much more leverage."

"See?" And she smiled at him archly, and departed, leaving Feanor embarrassed, determined to match her quality of work, and completely in love and wishing to see her again. While he was young then -and still is- he knew his own mind, and he knew even then that he wanted to wed her or none.

After listening to the conversations of other apprentices, he learned her name- Nerdanel- and that she often undertook journeys. Thus Fëanor contrived to encounter her by chance on the road, and finally after several fruitless attempts, he finally did. He asked if he could join her on her sojourn, she agreed, and they were friends from then on.

But friends and only that. He still did not speak his true feelings, and would never do so. Not because of their differing stations; he cared not that Nerdanel is a smith's daughter- he would gladly wed her tomorrow, in front of all the Noldor if she wished- but because if he were to admit his feelings, and speak of how brightly his spirit burned for her, if she did not feel the same, he could never face her again. He had asked her, casually, very causally if she thought that she would ever wed, and she had found it hilarious, being as young as she was, as they both were, and said what kind of question is that, are you proposing? And he said that he was not, he was only asking, and left the conversation at that. He was content to only be her companion and not her spouse, and his other feelings were easily ignored, most of the time. But when he was in a situation such as this, reminded that they would never share a bed as anything more than friends inconvenienced for a night, they were harder to forget. 

Sleep, Fëanor told himself again, and eventually he did. What little was left of the night passed uneventfully. He woke, with aching muscles from his lack of movement. Feanor had half hoped that Nerdanel would wake him, and passionately declare her love for him, and he would take her in his arms and- well in any case, naught of that sort happened.

Nerdanel stood before the room's mirror, combing out her hair while considering out loud the best way to reconnect with their planned route.

Fëanor was only half listening. Instead he was distracted by her hair- she so seldom wore it loose, which he understood of course, long flowing hair is not practical when working in a forge- but now it tumbled down her back in a tangle of red, gleaming where Laurelin's light caught it.

"You have very beautiful hair," he stated, transfixed.

"Hah!" Nerdanel replied, not turning, still combing, "More like nigh impossible to detangle."

"Nay, truly, it is so unique. I have seen none like it and it brings to mind of tongues of fire, intertwined with spun gold. I understand that it is not sensible that you wear it down while smithing, but it is still lovely." He stopped speaking and debated the relative merits of never doing so again.

This drew Nerdanel's attention, and she ceased combing and gave him a very odd look. Fëanor might praise her handiwork- and he had done so often in the past- but she herself he has never spoken of. "I...thank you, Fëanor. That is most kind."

Nerdanel resumed speaking of their journey, and Feanor attempted to cover his embarrassment- Tongues of flame? Spun gold? Who would say such things?- by collecting their supplies. They resumed their journey- the remainder of which was pleasantly free from inclement weather- and she never again mentioned his compliment, not even to tease him with.

She had forgotten the incident, he hoped fervently. And yet, he did notice that she left her hair unbound more and more often, when she visited him at the palace, or when they met at her home, even on their journeys. And some part of Fëanor dared to hope.


	9. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arien's experience following the death of the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Silmarillion Writer's Guild Silmarillion40 challenge.

I.

I am like the fire  
that comes from wet wood,  
smoky and dull.  
Evil has taken away  
Laurelin  
And Telperion.  
I mourn  
as much as Nienna and Yavanna.  
But their tears  
and song  
bring forth two fruits.  
And my sorrow gives  
Nothing.  
Fire is no good for healing  
only for destruction.  
And I am too weak  
and too far away  
to destroy Morgoth.

 

II.

I am alone  
smoking and scorched.  
Varda finds me  
She is made of stars and darkness,  
comets and void.  
Everything in the heavens.  
“Arien,” she says,  
extending her hand.  
Constellations twinkle on her fingers.  
“Come with me.”  
I come.  
You cannot refuse a thousand galaxies.  
My fiery hand does not burn hers.  
There is no air for fire to burn  
in space.

III.

She leads me  
to the dead skeletons of the trees.  
Besides them rests  
a boat,  
beautiful.  
Containing the fruit of Laurelin,  
glowing  
with the light of a tiny candle  
compared to my tree.  
Yet,  
it is the last part of Laurelin left alive.  
I will protect it with all the fire in my body.  
Varda knows this.  
“Take this vessel into the east, and return from the west,”  
she tells me.  
I know what to do.  
How to control this ship.  
When to depart. When to return.  
I was born for this.

 

IV.

 

I walk towards the vessel  
eager, like flames licking at straw.  
The voice of Laurelin  
calls to me  
Arien.  
When I touch the fruit,  
it is white hot.  
Sparks fly from my hands.  
And I burn brightly  
again.  
I am the flickering of a torch in a cave by an explorer,  
a candle lit in a sacred ceremony.  
I am the fire burning on the hearth of every home,  
the billowing fire of a dragon’s breath, destroying.  
I am  
the sharp flare of a match.  
I am ready.  
The moorings are cut,  
falling away.  
The ship lifts off  
and  
I  
fly.


	10. Drinking Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor and Andreth test their alcohol tolerance.

"Is this true?" Questioned Andreth, setting a large archaic volume on the table and turning it towards Aegnor.

"Can elves really imbibe as much alcohol as you wish and suffer no ill effects?"

He looked at the page, and saw a scholarly text saying something to this extent. It was evening and he was visiting Andreth, as he did so often.

"I do not think so…our race can be affected by posions, so I would guess that spirits could affect us, but perhaps to a lesser extent." Of course this would interest her, there is little in the world that did not.

"Oh," Andreth looked disappointed not to receive a definite answer. But then her face brightened. "Shall we test it?"

"You are suggesting that I consume a large quantity spirits, in order to prove a point?"

"Aegnor, my friend, of course not," Andreth looked at him shocked. "I am suggesting that we both consume a large quantity of spirits, in order to test a point."

"That is the most idiotic-"

"We can make it a game of sorts. To see which one of us possesses more stamina in this area."

Aegnor saw that she was determined, and it was an interesting question. Why not? His abilities in this particular area have never been tested. "What would the victor of this contest gain?"

"The defeated must do what the victor requests," Andreth replied. She was winning him over.

And, lured by this prospect, and in the pursuit of knowledge, they drink.

He expected to seem some change in her as they continued on, some of the usual symptoms of intoxication, but Andreth continued to seem quite lucid. She did not taunt him, as was customary in mortals' drinking contests. She poured and drank, with her face gravely serious.

"Who taught you to drink thus?"

"I have older brothers," she replied.

Aegnor saw that she meant to win, and, as she continued to empty her cup with no sign of stopping, that he had underestimated her.

Immortal, and stronger in body he might have been, yet he had never participated in such games.

He could not remember consuming such great quantity of spirits in any time previous. Elves did not drink for the intoxicating effects, nor did they possess the reckless urge of men to imbibe potent liquids in shows of strength or masculinity.

Aegnor felt the wine coursing through his veins, numbing his reflexes, and his mind, and even his sharp sight. As he poured from the much lighter bottle, again- how many drinks had it been?- His vision momentarily split itself, and he saw two hands holding two bottles.

"I concede," he said, placing the bottle down. His mind was no longer wholly under his control, and the effect was disorienting and terrifying. Aegnor did not wish it to continue, no matter if he must concede, he did not mind.

"What would you have me do?"

Now Andreth smiled, and her eyes flashed with victory.

"Kiss me," she said, placing her mug on the table, triumphantly. "I have oft wondered what it would be like to kiss an elf."

"What?" he cannot have heard her correctly. _Are auditory hallucinations part of drunkenness?_ She repeated her command. It was the same.

A surprising command, but not a terrible one. Aegnor thought. He too had wondered what it would be like to kiss a mortal, although not in a general sense, he had wondered about her specifically.

Of course Aegnor had not allowed himself to dwell on these thoughts, dismissing them as idle fancy. But now, intoxicated, his mind is not as strict as he would like, and with her grinning at him, he wondered again.

"Oh," Andreth clarified, rolling her eyes, "not because I fancy you, I certainly do not, but who can say when I will next have an elf completely at my bidding?"

It still surprised him that to humans a kiss could mean so little, only a reward given to the victor of a contest. Another difference between their races: her kind gave their kisses- and so much more- to each other so easily.

"Wait-you are not married, are you?" Andreth asked.

Aegnor shook his head. This action, combined with standing up, which he did a moment later, caused him to feel as though his mind had detached itself from his body and was floating around the room. _Mortals got drunk voluntarily, for enjoyment?_

He took a steadying breath, gripping the edge of the table for support, and his mind ceased its flight.

Andreth was standing as well, looking amazingly sober. She stepped towards him. "Well, my conquered, vanquished, defeated-"

"Yes, I take you meaning," he interrupted, knowing that she would never let him forget his loss. "Now be quiet if you wish me to do as you requested."

Andreth smirked up at him- but silently.

Resignedly, Aegnor leaned down and kissed tasted like wine, but not unpleasantly so, and he felt- something that he feared to name, doubtless it was intoxication and nothing more.

He pulled away- and nothing more.

"You have very lovely bone structure," stated Andreth. Her face was flushed, and the way she gazed at him, perhaps she was inebriated too, or perhaps-

But his trail of thought was cut short- as Andreth attempted to sit down again, but missed her chair, and slid onto the floor, and Aegnor helped her to stand, ignoring her protests that the floor was not to uncomfortable and that she would just stay here.

He left shortly there after, walking more or less in a straight line, finding his dwelling eventually, and falling asleep instantly.

In times previous, Aegnor had held nothing but respect for Arien, but the next morning, as her light streamed through his window- bright, too harshly bright- and he cursed the sun maiden bitterly.

It seemed that Andreth's book had been egregiously incorrect.

Besides the horrible light, his head and stomach ached. These must be headache and nausea so oft complained of by mortals; he had sympathized with them before, but he had never thought that he could experience these afflictions himself.

Mandos, he begged silently. Forgive me my folly. Receive my soul, take me from this tortured existence.

And then, through pain, and the thirst- he had drunk so much, how can he possibly feel thirsty?- one thought pierced through Aegnor's aching mind. Andreth's words the previous night: You have very lovely bone structure.

* * *

He grinned.

* * *

 

Andreth too woke up in pain. After this contest both parties would have asserted that theirs was the greater suffering. Aegnor, because he had had no previous experience with the after effects of alcohol, and Andreth simply because, though she had participated-and mostly won drinking contests before- she could not remember feeling this terrible in well, ever.

She was in her bed, which she could not even remember laying down in the previous night. Ow, her mind whispered quietly. She vaguely remembered talking with, then drinking with Aegnor. She vividly remembered kissing him. For a moment she forgot her pain, as she let her mind drift back to this incident. It had been a very nice kiss and she imagined what it would be like if he had kissed her of his own volition and for more than a moment…

Andreth rolled over in bed. Stop, she ordered herself. She was way too hungover, and it was far too late in the day for her to be imagining this. But despite what she had told Aegnor last night, she did fancy him. Not in some doom filled, star crossed elf and human way, not with dieing or sacrificing immortality for the other person, she just found Aegnor exceptionally attractive, and would not mind kissing him again, for several hours perhaps.

She remembered how to move her legs, and got up. The bed sheets were tangled around her body and she almost fell onto the floor, for the second time in twenty four hours. While she might have excellent alcohol tolerance, she did not handle its aftereffects well.

At least she got her kiss, although that had not been her original intent. She had only wanted to win, and she would never have made that request while sober. Cringing, she remembered what she had said after. While it was true, he did have a beautiful face- indeed, the first time that she saw Aegnor, Andreth had fleetingly thought that she would follow him to the ends of the earth, then she realized that to do that would have represented the kind of rash lovesick decision making that she had oft derided, and decided that she would walk next to, or slightly in front of, him to the ends of the earth, should there be a convincing reason to do so- but still she was appalled that she would have voiced her thought out loud.

 She walked into her kitchen, with the intent to make herself breakfast, deciding to choose hunger over the residual nausea she felt. The first thing that caught her eye was the book containing the information she and Aegnor had proved false last night. Andreth resolved to correct it later, adding their findings in the margin, although she will not mention either of their names. She would prefer to be remembered for being wise, Saelind, as some already name her, than for her drinking stamina.

Their findings were not much, with only one test subject, and one kind of spirit, taken in one setting She would like to study this further, although she doubted many other elves would consent. At least it was a start.

Glancing at the floor, she noticed that something had been slid under her door while she slept. A letter with two flowers resting on top. Andreth picked both these things up, turning her attention to the flowers first.

A peony and and a sprig of fennel. The flowers standing for healing and congratulations. This was unmistakably Aegnor’s doing. It was from him that she had learned the meanings the elves conveyed by sending different flowers.

Congratulations, because she had bested him. Healing, because of its damages to her health. It was ridiculously pretentious, and according to human standards entirely the wrong response after a night of drinking. And yet it was so like him, a kind gesture, and he had given her flowers. Even though they did not symbolize romance, this thrilled her- but she was being ridiculous again.

She set the blossoms down and opened the letter.

_Dear Andreth,_   
_It is hardly an exaggeration when I say that I have never felt worse in my life than I do this morning. I hope that you do not feel the same, although I fear that you may, as the after effects of alcohol seem to be universal among humans, and elves too apparently. At least we have discovered something in the name of science, and this is a small consolation._

_While I did not get a chance to respond to your compliment last night regarding my bone structure, this was most gracious of you. I think that you have very nice facial structure as well._

_Aegnor_

The entirety of the gesture was sweet, the fact that he both cared enough about how she was feeling, and the that he had taken the time to write this and collect the flowers despite experiencing the aftermaths of spirits for the first time. And the last sentence! She knew that Aegnor was not given to idle flattery and surely, if he had been discomfited by her statement then he would not have brought it up of his own volition, but there is his neat handwriting were the words, I think that you have very nice facial structure as well. Perhaps he too had studied her in profile while she was distracted with some other thing, as she had so often studied his

She read them again, feeling ridiculously happy. A kiss, and a compliment, and only a wicked hangover in the way of payment.

Still, _I am never, ever drinking again_ , she resolved.

 


	11. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Fëanor goes to great lengths to 'accidentally' meet Nerdanel on one of her journeys.

In a wild, remote corner of Aman, Fëanor rounded a curve in the road and saw- finally- Nerdanel, Mahtan’s daughter, walking further up the road, her brilliant hair unmistakable, carrying only a light traveling bag. 

He had been trying causally to meet her on one of her journeys for weeks now, but his knowledge of her travels had been scarce, gleaned from eavesdropping, and questions posed to other forge apprentices. So far he had been unsuccessful, not knowing the places where she journeyed well enough, and becoming hopelessly lost, or not being able to locate here even at the correct destination. 

Of course, it would have been far less difficult to speak with Nerdanel at her father’s forge where Fëanor had the joy of seeing her almost daily, but there he could think of nothing to say, and decided that it would be better if they chanced to meet somewhere else. 

And now, the beautiful forge maiden with calloused hands- he knew this last detail because in one of their few interactions, she had placed her hands around Fëanor’s to show him a technique. It was thrilling although he had been distracted from her actual lesson. 

Unfortunately he found his lack of conversation starters persisted, even outside the forge. The thought of an actual interaction was still terrifying.

No, he told himself. This is ridiculous. He had not come all this way, to simply follow her at a distance. He must think of something to say. 

Hello, possibly. Yes. He could catch up with her, greet her, and then comment on the weather- nay not the weather, but he will make some intelligent comment. From there he can inquire where she travels and name it as his destination as well. 

Fëanor could offer to accompany her or better yet, if she asked him...she might, after all it would be a polite gesture. 

He increased his pace, preparing to speak to her. His heartbeat quickened as well- how can a conversation be so difficult- he need not greet her from close range, he can call out, and she will turn around…

But as he was about to speak, Nerdanel strayed off the path. Ahead of her, the road turned sharply to the left, taking its walkers away from the sheer cliff straight ahead. Beyond that the ground falls away and far below lay the sea, smashing against the cliff’s base and retreating over and over again. 

Instead of turning with the road, Nerdanel walked straight on, approaching the edge of the cliff. She stopped, set down her bag, removed her shoes, and with no inhibition at all, jumped gracefully into the water below.

She must be mad, or attempting to die, Fëanor thought as he ran up the remaining distance of road between them, and peered over the edge of the drop. The fall did not seem as far as he had thought previously, and Nerdanel had not jumped to her death, but rather landed safely and was now treading water. She had done this for enjoyment? 

“Are you alright?” He shouted down at her. It is not how he imagined their first meeting, though now he admired her all the more for her bravery. 

“Yes!” She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, smiling; she was smiling up at him. “I often jump off from this point. It is quite safe, you should join me,” she offered.

The cliff edge is sheer and Fëanor saw no way down. “I- you mean jump?”

“I told you, it is quite safe!” 

He hesitated. On one hand he could join Nerdanel,and she had asked him, which seemed very promising. This was a perfect opportunity to meet her, and yet, the drop was not that far, and yet it is not that short either…

Fëanor has never done something like this before, having never been presented with a compelling reason to hurl himself off a cliff. But if he does not jump, she will regard him as a coward, and that thought was more abhorrent than any momentary discomfort he might experience. 

He set down his gear and unlaced his boots- it is not that far- and stepped to the edge. The water glinted below him, splashing against the rocks.

Oh gracious lady Uinen, he prayed. Save me from death or grievous injury, I beg you. 

And he jumped. The fall is terrifying. He fought the urge to flail his arms, as he plummeted through the air. Hitting the water was hardly better; it felt firmer than water had a right to be. The salty liquid choked him as he plunged deep down into it, mercifully avoiding any rocks. For a second he swore that he saw a women’s face in the bubbles. She winked at him and disappeared. 

Thank you, lady of the seas.

He surfaced, spitting out water, as the rush of adrenaline receded. Nerdanel was watching him, with the look of someone trying not to laugh. “It gets easier after the first time, I assure you.” 

And swimming over to Fëanor, she stuck out her hand, saying, “I am Nerdanel, and of course I know who you are. What brings you out here?”

They shook hands- hers is calused as he remembered. Before Feanor could answer with something suitable, she continued, “I am not traveling anywhere in particular, but this is such a beautiful place and I wished to explore it.”

This presented a problem; Feanor could hardly say that he was doing the same, but inspiration struck him and he replied, “I did not intend to come this way. I fear I am slightly lost. But if you know these parts well could you possibly assist me?”

“Of course. Where is your destination?”

Feeling quite pleased with himself, Fëanor named a town about day hence, and Nerdanel said that she knew it well, and she could show him the way.

They swim to the thin strip of shore. There is an steep path climbing up the rocks, not visible from the top. The climb seemed easy to Fëanor- she did not seem to mind his company, and he had not done anything too embarrassing, and now they had at least a day to spend together. It does not matter than he has no business at said town; he will come up with something. 

From that day forward, the prince and the explorer were friends, and journeyed to many destinations together, yet only after they were wed did Fëanor reveal what part he had had in their first meeting.


	12. Shining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilion's thoughts on Arien and being the moon spirit. Companion piece to Burning.

I.

Arien burns  
I see her arcing across the sky.  
Brilliant.  
Flaming.  
Morgoth is afraid of her.  
So too would I be-  
If she glanced me with all the power  
of her fiery gaze,  
if I saw her-  
bearing the last light of Laurelin.  
I would fear her  
if she were not on our side.  
Arien burns  
Hot and angry  
She will never forget the death of the Trees.  
Her anger will never be extinguished.  
Her hate for him will go on  
until the ending of the world. 

II.

I love Arien.  
In the beginning  
Arien and I lit the sky together,  
but our lights proved too great.  
And at Varda’s command  
we were sundered.  
Now.  
We journey in a circle,  
each following the other.  
I am bound to this boat.  
Yet sometimes,  
I break my orbit.  
I would reach her.  
Her presence burns me  
I would be ashes  
if I stayed.  
So I retreat.  
She is too bright for me.  
I am bound to be her other half.  
the moon spirit,  
night to her day.  
I am content to follow,  
together and apart  
Following our arcs in the heavens  
forever. 

 

III.

My love,  
she is heat  
fire.  
But I  
am  
cool and night and rest.  
My light brings  
peace.  
I shine on the world,  
gently  
warding darkness away,  
aiding sleep.  
I do not burn away the stars,  
when my boat draws near them.  
They are my companions  
always.  
As I sail through the darkness.  
And in front of me,  
far away,  
I see Arien’s inferno of light  
drawing me on  
forever more.  
And I am  
content.


	13. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel has a surprising premonition. She definitely does not have a crush on Fëanor though.

Nerdanel sprinted after Fëanor, her legs and lungs burning with the exertion. But it was no good; he had far too much of a lead on her, but she would never simply give up, no matter how beaten she knew she was. They were traveling near the sea, and seeing the large rock formations that jutted out near the edge of the water, Feanor has challenged her to race up one. She had not thought that it would be this difficult. It was larger than it had first looked, and of course he had a head start, not having waited for her reply before taking off.

Finally she climbed to the summit, not that long after he had, she thought, not so long that it warranted him shouting, “Again you have failed to best me! What a horrible defeat!” at her, which he did.

Gasping for breath, she began to reply, when suddenly she ceased to see Fëanor and the bright landscape around them. What she saw was not so much with her eyes but with her mind. Nerdanel had always possessed foresight, for as long as she could remember she had known things, mostly small things such as where lost objects where, but visions of larger future events were not uncommon either.

This was a vision certainly, but this time, for the first time, the subject was Nerdanel herself. She was dressed in fine clothes, much finer than any she now owned, and stood with Feanor in front of a large crowd of nobles from all three houses. They were to be wed and their marriage was being blessed.

And before Nerdanel had time to be incredibly surprised- wed to Feanor!- the scene changed and she was plunged into a whirlwind of premonitions. She saw happiness and children, so many children. Three of them shared her hair color, Nerdanel’s mind noted distractedly. Their childhoods- seven in all- flash before her. There was more, jewels with the light of heaven captured inside, darkness and fire, shouted and binding words, sorrow untold and finally a great doom, beyond what she could possibly understand.

And then her second sight faded as quickly as it had come, and she was once more standing on top of a rock sticking out of the sea. Mere seconds had passed. She could barely breathe, but no longer from physical exertion. Her mind raced, trying to hold on to what she had seen, even as bits of it faded like threads of a dream slipping away the next morning. She tried to push away the horrifying parts. Those, she wanted to forget.

Fëanor, noticing her lack of response to his provocation which ordinarily she would have never left lie, said, “Nerdanel? Are you alright?”

“Yes fine, I-”

But he continued, “because you looked very odd just now-”

“I am fine,” she snapped, wishing for him- her future spouse , her mind whispered- to be quiet so she could process what she had just seen. The first thing that shocked her of course was that she would have wedded Feanor. Of course they are friends, best friends she would admit if pressed, and of course she cared about him very deeply, but not in a romantic sense, surely not. She had never even considered the possibility of them as sweethearts, and had he? Nerdanel glanced at her companion walking on the road beside her. Feanor had certainly had never said anything to that effect. Of course even if he had possessed feelings for her, Nerdanel was not sure that she would have realized it.

She was perceptive in other matters, but in love…love was not something she had ever given much thought to. Until now of course where it seemed that her fate was to marry, and marry into royalty.

She does not fancy Fëanor; she does not! And yet in what Nerdanel saw, she was happily wed to, and very much in love with him. Nerdanel did not like being told that she will develop feelings she does not currently possess. Everthing would change if she fell in love with him.

When she managed to stop thinking about him, she began instead to think of their children. Seven! No one she knew, or even heard of had any where near that number. Even couples with three children were the subjects of jests behind their back about their burning physical passion for each other. What would people say, all of the Noldor, about having more than twice that many? And the amount of intercourse actually required to produce such a great number- Nerdanel felt her face grow hot. If she were to marry, she would of course want some children, and she did not think that she would exactly mind the creating of them either, but to think of herself and Fëanor…

He was not bad looking, she would admit that at least. Certainly his coloring, the contrast of dark hair and gray eyes, was striking, his body was slim but muscled from working with stone and metal, and there had been times when she had looked at him and seen what the other female apprentices in her father’s forge admire so much about him. But Nerdanel was an artist and when she noticed these things, it was in a purely objective sense.

Fëanor and Nerdanel were close to the end their journey, and she thanked all the Vala for this. She would not have been able to stand being around him and only him for days and nights on end, as they sometimes were on their longer sojourns. It was not his fault, but she still would rather not see him again for quite some time. Accursed second sight! She did not speak to Feanor and answered his attempts at conversation as shortly as possible, as they walked towards civilization, their path in the wild remerging with that of settled lands. The silence that they finally lapsed into felt awkward, grating on Nerdanel, but she could think of nothing to say. Telling him of her vision would only complicate things further.

They reached the palace first; she could hardly wait to take leave of him and return to her work table in the forge. She had missed it even before this vision, and now her work was the only thing that would clear her head. Surrounded by stone and flame she would be able to think properly again.

“Farewell,” Nerdanel said as they approached a back gate of the palace. She did not wait for him to answer and turned away, more quickly than was polite, but she did not care.

“Nerdanel, wait. Have I offended you in some way?” He was so earnest, and she suddenly felt awful that he thought that her behavior was on account of him.

“No, honestly. It was lovely journeying with you, as always,” she answered, trying to reassure him. “I used to only like traveling alone until I met you. You are not such a bad companion.” She finished hastily, hoping he would not wonder why she was expressing so much unusually nice emotion towards him.

Fëanor smiled at her, looking quite pleased at her words. “Thank you, you are wonderful too, I- anyway, farewell.” He walked away quickly, leaving her smiling as well despite her uncertainty about the future swirling about in her head. You are wonderful. Nerdanel felt her heart beat against her chest in an odd manner that she had never experienced before.

It was not so unpleasant and she thought that if she was doomed to wed and have seven children with Fëanor, she could perhaps get used to that idea.


	14. Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor and Nerdanel go and look at the sky and stuff.

Nerdanel had feelings for Fëanor, and she was absolutely furious about it. She could not exactly pin down when she began to feel this attraction to him, but she knew that now she was forced to deal with these new emotions, such stupid things…

She would not call it love, she did not want to, the very thought of that terrified her, but she did enjoy being around him very greatly- that was nothing new, they had always been friends- and he was the one of the only others she had ever met that loved the forge in the same way that she did, and his mind was brilliant, and their journeys together were very pleasant, even when they travelled in silence. But previously Nerdanel had never felt as she did now, such as when they worked at smithing together, Fëanor speaking of the method he was inventing for the creation of gems, and Nerdanel realizing that she had not heard anything that he had been saying because she was distracted by how close he was and the fact that he had removed his shirt due to the heat of the forge.

And to think that she once had felt nothing for him! To think that she had slept in the same bed and had easily fallen asleep. To think that she had even kissed him- and only for practice!

Nerdanel hated that whenever she saw Fëanor she had both the urge to physically fling herself at him across his worktable- after carefully moving aside whatever project he was working on of course- and the urge to run away and hide and never see him again.

But however pleasant it was to imagine the first scenario, she did not know how to bring it about. In the forge Nerdanel was quite capable at shaping stone and metal, but not hearts. The ways of flirting, of attraction, of seduction, were utterly alien to her. And even if she did become familiar with them, she still doubted that they would work on Fëanor. He did not seem to notice any other maidens, not those who apprenticed with her father, nor those belonging to noble families.

She would tell Fëanor how she felt, she vowed. Nerdanel was used to speaking her mind on all other matters and to conceal such a thing as this felt akin to lying. She will tell Fëanor, but just not today.

Today being a day, where all the other apprentices had left, and her father, having important deliveries to make, had left her to close the workshop. And now the forge’s fires were all put out and the debris swept off the floor. Fëanor had remained behind to help her, which he did often although the tasks were not hard, and she did not really require the assistance. While they worked, Fëanor spoke of his progress in the art of swordfighting, taught to him by a tutor. He quite enjoyed it, he said.

Nerdanel forgot sometimes that he was also a prince, not only her friend, and that he lived the life of royalty, with private lessons and such.

“You should learn how to use a sword,” stated Fëanor.

“I have no time for such lessons,” she replied. Many other apprentices in the forge spoke highly of creating and wielding their own swords, something about the process of using a sword that they themselves had made and able to perfectly shape the balance of their weapons. Nerdanel had always loved swords, and knives, and spears, all metal weapons really, but only their crafting and not their actual uses.

“No need, for that, I can teach you now” he said, standing up. “Come on, it will be fun.”

“Oh well, with you as my extremely experienced teacher, how can I refuse?” Nerdanel agreed, both because she was bored, and because, to be perfectly honest, she wanted to remain in Fëanor’s company for as long as possible- which annoyed part of her greatly but was true all the same Since there were no more tasks to be done, and they were talking of nothing particular, he would leave if she told him that she had no interest in fighting. Was this flirting? She could do this.

And why not learn? Nerdanel had never made a sword, and it she knew how to use one, she would be able to her skills in that area of crafting as she could forge her own.

“What are we to use for swords?” She asked.

“Any sort of wooden rod,” Fëanor replied, and Nerdanel’s mind jumped to the walking sticks her father kept by their door. He liked to carry one on his travels- he had not taken it today as he had not gone far- and he had carved one for her to use as well, although she prefered to travel light, unencumbered any unnecessary items.

She fetched them. They were sanded smooth, preventing splinters and the one she now held came up her her shoulder, slightly too long for a sword. Feeling like a child playing at being a warrior, she stood in the courtyard outside the forge, awkwardly holding her ‘sword.’ Fëanor began to instruct her, first on her stance, (wrong,) then on her hand grip (wrong), and then back to her stance which she had changed while concentrating on the position of her hands. And this was not even the actual fighting part, only how to stand.

“When do I get to actually stab you?” Nerdanel asked, looking at him but remembering not to move the rest of her body so he would not tell her to move her feet apart, again.

“You may try,” Feanor answered, and she attempted a swipe at him which he dodged easily. “Do not look where you want to hit, it shows your intention,” he called and she gritted her teeth, vowing that she would not do it again. He picked up the other walking stick and began demonstrating basic moves, counting the beats like a dance. “One,” and she swung left. “Two,” and right. “Three,” and she went back to the left, but hitting lower now. “Four,” and down on the right.

Nerdanel swung at air at first, and then he stepped in, and they parried each other's strikes slowly, she stepping forward and attacking on his command, and then with him on offensive, moving towards her. They go through this again and again, and the movements became easier with repetition. Fëanor explained other things as well: how to put power behind strikes, and methods of disarming an opponent.

“I understand,” she said, and did, mostly. This was proving to be more interesting than Nerdanel thought it would be, and she wanted to stop practicing slow versions of the moves and see what true fighting felt like.

“Then- on guard!” And she moved towards him, trying to remember what she had been learning, trying to execute them quickly, which avoiding his strikes. It was incredibly tricky, as she attempted to hold all of these things in her mind at once. Again she was struck by the semblance to dancing and the necessity of control over the whole body.

Fëanor was going easy on her and not using the full extent of his skill, of course she knew that, yet Nerdanel still felt quite proud when she at last managed to drive him back against one of the walls in the courtyard. “Surrender!” She shouted, leaning forward, pressing her stick harder against his, forcing it back towards him.

They were quite close, she realized, suddenly noting their position, she having pushed him against a wall and closed the distance between as she pressed her advantage. She imagined them with the absence of swords, as lovers, pressed together, their arms wrapped around neck and waist, and she kissing his neck and- _honestly, was this was love did to your brain?_

“Yield, I have won!” Nerdanel commanded him again, jerking her mind back to the present, glad that her flushed face and breathing could be attributed to their sparing and not to any of her ridiculous feelings.

“Fine! I yield, before you kill me with your very dangerous wooden stick.” Nerdanel grinned and stepped backwards, lowering her weapon.

“Well done,” Fëanor said.

Nerdanel felt embarrassed, as she always did when he complimented her, and said, “I suppose, for my first fight. Will you continue to teach me?” Strands of her hair had fallen out of her braid and she pushed them behind her ears. She remembered that this gesture was one that she oft seen other maidens do when they were attempting to enamor certain youths, although those girls were not covered in sweat when they did it. Oh well.

“Yes, I will gladly instruct you.” She could tell whether Fëanor had noticed her gesture. At least he was willing to tutor her.

“Thank you.” The conversation paused and she did not know how to revive it. This happened often now, with him. She, who could always think of things to say. “It is late,” she offered, glancing up at the sky over their heads.

“Yes- I should be going,” he said, and Nerdanel cursed herself silently, for to imply that Fëanor should leave was not her intention at all. How did people get others to fall in love with them? How! When she could not even speak what she wished?

Fëanor handed back his borrowed walking stick and said goodbye, he will see her tomorrow, and Nerdanel said that yes she would, goodbye. As he walked away she thought, finally, of something clever to say and before she could consider whether it was too brash she had called out, “I enjoyed sparring with you, Fëanor, it is always nice to have you up against a wall!”

Fëanor paused briefly, and without turning around, said, “I enjoyed it- sparring- too.”

He walked away, and Nerdanel was sure that he was smiling- she knew that she was at least.

 

 


	15. Varda's Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor and Nerdanel go look at the sky and stuff.

The night was cold and peaceful. All was quiet, as most denizens of Aman were asleep at this hour. Nerdanel had been as well- emphasis on the past tense. Some noise had woken her, a tapping on the glass of her window. Fëanor. He motioned at her to open it.

Nerdanel was still half asleep- too tired to be excited by the possibilities presented by being woken by the very youth she fancied in the middle of the night- and opening the window to see what he wanted would require sticking her arm out from her pile of blankets. But who could say that if she ignored him he would go away? Reluctantly, she pushed away the blankets covering her shoulders, and reached over to unlock and raise the window. Luckily it was well oiled, and did not squeak as she pushed it up.

"What is the meaning of this? At this hour?" She hissed at him, her annoyance not great enough to risk waking the rest of her household.

Fëanor looked at her, not at all troubled, and said, "Come with me, I have something to show you. Trust me, Nerdanel, it will be worth losing some of your sleep- and it is not that cold," he added, anticipating her next question.

"What are you speaking of? Can it not wait until morning?" Her hair must look terrible, Nerdanel realized belatedly. She did not know what caused it to get so tangled each night and yet it unfailingly did. She pulled her covers over her head, thinking perhaps she could just ignore him.

"No, it cannot wait; for what I have to show you can only be seen at night."

"I have already seen the stars, Fëanor. They have been in existence for quite some time now," Nerdanel responded, her voice muffled by the blankets.

"Not the stars, something else. It will be glorious I promise," said Fëanor, and then he had the audacity to actually reach through her window and prod her shoulder. "Come!"

"Fine," she was at least curious now. "I will come." Nerdanel pushed back all of her blankets and felt her cocoon of body heat dissipate as she rose from her bed and put on every coat she could find. Dressed she crawled back across her bed and climbed through the window- with not too much difficulty- and jumped down to join Fëanor.

"Now close your eyes," he instructed. Being more awake now, Nerdanel had begin to think on what he meant by asking her to sneak out in the middle of the night, and now she thought fleetingly that he was going to kiss her. But no, when she closed her eyes and heard Fëanor say: "This way. It is not far, and the road is fairly flat." He did take her hand at least, if only to guide her steps. She knew well the road they were walking on, and yet could not think of anything on it that was so spectacular, or could only be seen at night, on this path.

Nerdanel felt the road slant upwards beneath her feet as they climbed upwards several paces more. "Here," said Fëanor. "Sit down." She did so, opening her eyes, and seeing nothing but an unremarkable landscape. The ground was cold but at least not wet with frost. Fëanor had unfortunately let go of her hand, although unsurprisingly, as they had reached their destination. "I see nothing," she began, wondering what kind of drawn out jest he was leading her on.

"Look up, Nerdanel," he said, pointing. And then she saw what Fëanor had dragged her out of bed to show her, and the cold and loss of sleep faded away, as she beheld the illuminated sky. Not lit with stars, although some of them shone above as well, but with other lights- bright ribbons and swaths of color lit from a source she could not name. These lights were different from that of the Trees, more remote, yet equally as beautiful. Vivid green was the predominate color, yet Nerdanel's eyes picked out streaks of yellow, so pale that it was almost white, and purple, blending with the black sky.

Most were stationary, but as she continued to stare, awed, one section arced upwards and snaked downwards to for a new pattern. Their appearance was transfixing. It made her feel tiny, and yet as if she was the center of the world. It was glorious, and so unexpected, and hers to share with Feanor as the rest of Aman slept.

After an eternity of gazing skyward, or perhaps only a few moments, she heard Fëanor ask: "Do you like them?"

"Yes!" Nerdanel dragged her eyes away from the lights and back to him. "They are so extraordinary- what causes them?"

"I do not know. They only appear in the winter and even then not too frequently here. I discovered a book astronomy that mentioned them, and I have been watching for them each winter night since."

"What are they called?" The thought that he had read of this, and immediately wanted to share it with her pleased Nerdanel immensely.

"Varda's lights. Perhaps they have something to do with the stars. If Varda knows she has not told."

"Beautiful," Nerdanel said again.

"Yes," agreed Fëanor, but he was no longer looking at the sky, his eyes were on her, and Nerdanel was distracted from celestial manifestations, and instead thinking of her unconfessed feelings, and of daring to go after what she wanted. Who. Who she wanted.

While she could never had done something of this sort during the harsh light of day, the colored night sky gave her courage, and without stopping to consider the horrifyingly embarrassing ways that this could go wrong, she leaned over and kissed Fëanor.

She expected that he would be surprised, or at least hesitate. Nerdanel did not think that he would immediately respond to her advance, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, with a force that surprised her. Despite the cold, his mouth burned against hers, and she forgot everything else. There was only him and nothing else, until she was completely out of breath. Unsure if one was allowed to breathe through the nose while kissing- no, Nerdanel decided- she broke away reluctantly.

"Well," she began as her breathing returned to normal. "I am quite glad that you feel the same, or that would have been rather awkward..." Nerdanel felt thrilled that he returned her feelings, but had no idea how to voice this sentiment eloquently, but she felt that it was necessary to say something.

"Feel the same?" Fëanor said. "I have loved you since we first met!"

Nerdanel tilted her head. "But that was ages and ages ago; if you felt such then why did you not tell me sooner?"

"I did not think that you cared for me, in the same way, and I did not want to make things uncomfortable between us if that was the case- "

"Fëanor, you coward!" Said Nerdanel, although she followed this statement by kissing him again which rather took the edge off of her words. "And you would have been right, until recently, when I find myself, inexplicably, fancying you."

She thought that he would seize on the 'inexplicably,' but his tone remained serious."I am glad," Fëanor stoked her hair, the same open joy that she had beheld upon his face when he had crafted something successfully in the forge. "I am so glad."

Despite her wish to throw herself at Fëanor again- the previous kiss had been nice but she wanted more, she wanted- but some voice of reason not yet drowned by her desire told her that the king's son could not be wed on the side of the road, so Nerdanel contented herself with leaning her head against his shoulder. Thrilled by the night sky, and the fact that Fëanor loved her- loved, he had said loved!- that she felt that she could stay here forever. The display in the heavens was too glorious to go to sleep on and let the lights in the sky dance for no one.

"We should leave," said Fëanor, although Nerdanel guessed that he did not wished to either and she hoped that some of his reluctance was on her part, not only because of the sky. "Unless you wish to be completly exhausted tomorrow."

"Stay!" she caught hold of his arm as he moved to stand up. "I can be tired on the morrow."

"You who were so concerned about sleep when I woke you-"

"It is sleep that you want, then we could try my bed. I suppose it could accommodate two people, although there has never been occasion for that until now…" Clever remarks are nothing new to her, but this was different, this was flirting, unknown territory waiting to be explored.

Laughing, Fëanor stood, pulling Nerdanel up with him. They followed the path back, the two of them together like so many of their journeys, but not like the past. They were holding hands now and Nerdanel had never been more pleased with a new beginning.

 

The next morning, as Fëanor prepared to go into the forge, he too was equally pleased with how things had turned out. And yet he felt slight trepidation at what he was going to say to her today. While last night Nerdanel obviously had expressed her feelings for him, and there had been a quite a lot of kissing- now in the light of day he still felt shy around her.

Speak to her, he told himself sternly, as he sat before a block of marble, his assigned practice carving today. He cannot just stare at the back of her head all day, and so forced himself to walk over.

"Nerdanel, good morning," he said, trying not to shuffle his feet.

"Hello," she said glancing up He felt conspicuous, as if every other apprentice was noting their conversation and the new dynamic of their relationship.

"I am sculpting today, and I...er wondered if I could borrow your chisel, I need a smaller one. May I borrow one of yours?" It was a bad excuse to go talk to her, for he could have easily achived a finer chiseling by using the pointed edge of his own. Fëanor hoped that she would know that he really had just wanted to speak with her and did not care about sculpting at the moment.

"Here," and their fingers brushed as Nerdanel handed over the tool.

She was blushing Fëanor noticed, she was actually blushing- and it occurred to him that she could be just as awkward and nervous and new to this entire love thing as he was. This of course was ridiculous-she was perfect and amazing and had no reason to worry- however this gave him the confidence enough to say, "you look very beautiful today- as always."

Nerdanel muttered something about how he was being ridiculous, but she could not entirely hide the fact that she grinning, and so was Fëanor as he walked back to his work table, prepared to spend the rest of the day completely, blissfully distracted from his sculpting.


	16. A Dancing Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third ruling queen is more than she seems.

“You are smarter than you seem, Vanimeldë,” says her tutor, peering over Vanimeldë’s shoulder at the mathematics problem that the young girl- the princess, the future third ruling queen of Numenor- has correctly solved on her slate. Vanimeldë twirls a lock of her long hair around her finger and says nothing. She is not sure if this is a compliment. The princess knows that she is smart but she thought that her intelligence was visible to everyone.

“What do you mean, _than I seem?”_ She wants to ask, but her question remains stillborn because she knows that the woman will either dismiss her in that infuriating way that adults have, of remember that she speaks to royalty and and fall over herself apologizing. _Seem._ Vanimeldë runs her fingers over the seams of her dress- purple today. _Seem, seam._ The words sound alike but have different meanings. She smiles to herself but withholds this clever bit insight from her tutor.

Vanimeldë does not only learn mathematics; she is taught other subjects as well: about dead people and their deeds, and the poems and tales they have left behind, and the sciences where everything is hypothetical or never dies, only changes form.

“See how the apes fakes an injury and thus is left alone by the strongest in his tribe who do not believe him to be a threat?” Says her teacher in this subject. _See_ he always says, although the page is mostly text with an illustration of an ape- this one static and not appearing to be faking any injury. “Even brute beasts can use their enemy’s underestimation to their advantage,” the man says.

“Hmmm,” says Vanimeldë, thinking.

She is a princess, and she will be the queen some day. Tar -Vanimeldë. She is not the first woman to rule, which disappoints her a little- she wants to be first in everything- there have been two before. Some speak ill of them and their rulings. Vanimeldë wants to be loved.

She is good at singing, and plays multiple instruments- more than ladies need play to be considered accomplished. Her finger tips are calloused from hours of picking and holding down strings; the instruments’ taxes as she pulls notes from them.

Vanimeldë dances too- the court dances performed with a partner, meant chiefly for finding a husband, and solo dances, meant for performing in front of crowds, again mostly meant for ensnaring the eyes of a spouse. But most of all she loves to dance in private, to the music in her own head creating her own movements, and repeating them again and again, moving from difficult to easy, her body another one of her instruments. _Like Lúthien,_ she thinks, as she twirls in one of her rooms. The elven princess is one of the dead people that Vanimeldë learns about, though privately she thinks that Lúthien was a fool to abandon eternal, life, power, and youth for love. If she had such she would not give them away for the best husband in the world. But other people do not think such cynical things, or they at least do not agree with them when she says such, so she learns to keep them to herself.

People do what she wants, but not only because she is a princess. Her father has difficulty wrangling dissenters in his court, her mother's handmaidens are sometimes lazy. Royalty does not get you everything. Gradually Vanimeldë realizes that she is skilled in manipulation, though she does not think of it as such. For her, it is only what she says, or does not say. She understands what people want, and what she wants and can tie these things together well, without seeming to, so her parents, or playmates, or tutors achieve their goal and her wants just seem to come along with theirs.

She grows older, and playing stupid is easy, precisely because she is not. Vanimeldë is beautiful, and so people do not need her to be anything else.

She marries. Her parents arrange the match. Vanimeldë knows what they are doing. Their daughter is loved, but she will be a bad ruler, with her head so given to frivolous things. But simple as she is, she will not give up her right to rule, and so she must be given to a husband who can guide her. She is given a choice in the matter- a limited choice, one from the group of young men that are prodded forwards by their parents- eager to increase their son’s and their own social standings- to dance with her at balls.

While part of her- the same bit of her spirit that flames up in burning irritation when anyone dismisses her as unfit for anything- is angry that she is commanded to bind herself to someone, Vanimeldë tries to think about her marriage logically.

There are those at court who would not see a women rule, and certainly not an unwed one. There are distant cousins and brothers in laws that lurk in branches of her family, ready to move in on her throne if her claim and hold on it should not seem solid enough. Ancalime- the first queen- had a husband. Vanimeldë can have one too.

Perhaps her parents regret giving Vanimeldë, for she picks Herucalmo a youth, younger than herself, and not very kingly figure either.

“There is more to think of in this match than yourself,” says Vanimeldë’s mother, hesitating, not wanting to give the impression that marriage of nobility is only for impersonal gain. “Dear, are your sure that Heru…”

“I love him!” Responds her daughter imperiously, looking as if she will cry. “And did you not force me to choose a husband before the end of the year? The least you could do is honor my choice!”

And the queen relents and says that she is sure that Vanimeldë will be very happy with Herucalmo, feeling slightly guilty, for her daughter is right; she was forced to choose.

As soon as Vanimeldë is out of the room, she blinks away the film of tears, straightens her gown and departs to find Herucalmo and suggest they wed.

He is will not be a bad husband. If forced, she could think of no one else she would rather be with. Since childhood they have been friends. He plays the flute, so they have music in common. And last summer she pulled him away from the midsummer’s celebration and kissed him, because her nobility shielded her from the unsanctioned advances of youths and she was dying of curiosity wondering what affections that her peers fell to with such abandon felt like. He had been surprised, but the experience and those following had not been terrible.

Besides her own feelings, or at least lack of feelings for any of her other choices, Herucalmo is the youngest in a noble family, and used to being ordered around for the benefit of others. But he does not like the life of royalty. He wants to be a poet, so he has told Vanimeldë, not even a court poet, a secure paid post, but an ordinary one, selling his works to people, and starving if he could not profit from them.

Which is ridiculous, obviously, she thinks dismissively, but he will be a good ally, neither power hungry nor determined to oppose her rule.

“But Vanimeldë, why?” he asks her, on their wedding night, after the princess tells him that she wishes him to stand at the front of the government, to announce her decisions, to be the one to meet with counselors, and such. “Do you not wish to rule?”

“Because,” she answers, ignoring the second question, “I want to be loved.”

She knows that when those throughout the kingdom speak against their government, they will mention mayors and governors, even their king, but not her. Never her. They will never curse her. She will not the one to affix the royal seal to edicts that some call unfairly harsh. The queen has no power, poor thing, her husband is going over her head in this, and all she cares about is dancing. Vanimeldë will be the lovely, the smiling, the one who sings for the court before retiring and letting her husband speak with them.

In time her father dies, the crown passes to her, and she sees that her guesses have been right.

She is quite proud of her arrangement: to possess the power of ruling, without it appearing so, and the love of the people. Herucalmo loves her, or so he says, and she tries to believe him, remembering others are usually sincere when they say such to their spouses. He is a good man, and she says she loves him too, while wondering what she would do to him if he opposed her. His love alone is not enough. The admiration, respect, and even adulation that she sees when she appears before her people is what she needs. The hearts of so many keep her own beating.

She has a child- a boy, and is not sure whether to be disappointed that she has not given the kingdom another ruling queen, or happy that she has produced the required heir and will never have to endure the pain of childbirth again. Looking as her child she feels overwhelming, unrestrained love and this feeling frightens her and she tries to push them away, terrified that she can care so much for someone.

Unsure how to bring him up, she leaves most of his raising to governesses, and her husband. Her style of ruling would not be advantageous for men. Weak, stupid women in court are ignored, but weak stupid men in government are killed off. She has killed several. At least Vanimeldë can teach him to play the violin, or she tries to. He is not a very good pupil.

Only on some nights does a slice of cold pierce her soul, and Vanimelde wonders: would the people would still love her if they saw her pretty exterior stripped away to expose the ruthless ruling woman that lies beneath? If those that fling flowers though the window of her carriage would shrink to know that she threatens, and bribes, and causes people to disappear to get what she wants.

Then she is not sure which Vanimeldë she is, for the women bled together. Sometimes she is the stupid women who is not listening to the foreign official making a desperate attempt to convince her that tariffs should be lowered in his region because she is distracted by the court dancers; and sometimes she is a smart women listening to the trade representative; and sometimes she is ignoring the trade representative and watching the dance, but only because the man is wrong anyway, she knows that he will soon fall ill and pass away after a mysterious sickness and be replaced with someone else who understands the value of higher tariffs.

All of her is a lie, so much so that she is not sure what she would be if there was no need for acting or pretense. Who is she but a shrewd girl, eternally wearing a mask? These thoughts chill her, and she crys savagely- although silently so as not to wake her husband who could never understand- without knowing entirely why. After nights such as these, the next morning she rises and continues her play, all who see her remarking on how beautiful the queen looks today.

Vanimeldë does not think of death. She will surrender her life when it is advantageous to do so. This moment has not yet presented itself yet, and she has not taken. Her funeral will be spectacular, and she it planned although. It will be her last act as queen, and she does not care what happens to the kingdom after her death, if her son is a good ruler or nay, for she will be gone and she puts it from her mind.

No one knows the real Vanimeldë. Her true self is a secret, one at times frightening, but hers and hers wholly. She is unshared. She is a queen with a kingdom and the love of her people- no small feat.

Alone on her balcony, while her people sleep, Vanimeldë dances alone, silently. She dances for herself. She would have it no other way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Herucalmo changed his tune on ruling after his wife died. Maybe he was playing the long long game, or he didn't think his son would be a good ruler.


	17. Observing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin visits Fëanor in Mahtan's forge, which annoys the latter greatly, as he just wants to stealthily stare at Nerdanel.

Hands were incredibly detailed, as an increasingly annoyed Fëanor was learning. He was sculpting today, and his task was to carve a pair of hands. Hands are terribly hard to shape, and he feared that he has chipped away too much of the marble, and yet he did not want to have begin again, so he tried to ignore this.

 

His hand will not have fingernails either- the thought of chiseling stone into ten transparent curves was far too daunting. Hopefully Mahtan will not critique this. Some people do bite their nails after all.

 

And his half brother was here, which added to his annoyance. Fingolfin had to be here, in the forge, his forge, well not Fëanor’s forge, but more his than Fingolfin’s who is intruding on Fëanor’s work today because he was, “interested in your crafting, brother, as you spend so much time here, and I wonder what draws you,” or some nonsense. While the reasons that Fëanor had chosen an apprenticeship away from the palace, instead of private lessons within the palace, were twofold- initially because it served to keep him away from his step family and then because it allowed him to be in the company of Nerdanel almost everyday, he had no intention of sharing either sentiment with Fingolfin.

 

And Mahtan of course had allowed him to come and watch, as if he could have turned him down without seeming rude. Fingolfin sat in a chair next to Fëanor, his presence a detriment to his already less than successful sculpting. At least Mahtan had mentioned to Fingolfin that Fëanorwas one of his best pupils, although his current work seemed to the contrary.

 

“Are you going to add fingernails?” Said Fingolfin, as Fëanor set the hand again down, trying to find an angle at which it looked good.

 

“Yes, eventually. Obviously it is not finished yet.” Fëanor felt his nerves tearing themselves apart. “Surely my work cannot be the only one interesting to you. There are other apprentices here, go observe one of them instead,” he added through clenched teeth.

 

“Alright,” replied Fingolfin, not seeming offended. He was so unfailingly nice , which Fëanor hated as it made his behavior towards his step brother so much less justified. And yet he continued, ignoring his small flashes of guilt.

 

“Who here would not mind me watching their work?”

 

“I do not know-”

 

“Perhaps her,” he heard Fingolfin say. Fëanor continued to focus on his work hoping that Fingolfin would just go and bother whatever girl he was talking about. Or not bother- Fëanor was sure that bother, judging by the amount of staring and unusual amount of girls who kept passing by Feanor’s work table. Honestly, no one ever gave Fëanor this much attention, not that he wanted it, but in the interest of fairness…

 

“Fëanor? I said, do you think that she would mind if I-” This time Feanor did look up and saw the she in question. He felt his blood freeze in his veins. Why, out of all the apprentices, why did Fingolfin have to choose Nerdanel, Fëanor’s best friend, and the object of his completely silent affections that mostly consisted for Feanor staring at the back of her head as she worked, and occasionally saying awkward things. Nerdanel was his friend, and he jealously wanted to keep her company only for himself. Fëanorbegan to say that yes, Nerdanel really would be bothered, but Fingolfin had already gotten up and walked over to her.

 

Fëanor watched, tormented, as his step brother introduced himself, complimenting her work. She too had been set to sculpting a hand, but hers was beautiful, the fingers slim and graceful- with long curved fingernails as well.

 

Fingofin had introduced himself, and now they were shaking hands. Why did Fingolfin have to be so amicable, and good looking, and- a new horrifying thought struck him- what if Nerdanel should be charmed by him? No. The possibility was too ghastly to consider, and yet it weighed heavily upon Feanor’s mind as he completed his carving.

 

He could hear their conversation. Fingolfin was talking about Nerdanel’s piece, “...and it holds a myriad of interpretations, because if placed palm up it implies some kind of supplication, but with the palm down it represents something more sinister, like a disembodied hand or…” Well of course Nerdanel’s work was good , this was not exactly some earth shaking revelation that Fingolfin had stumbled upon, Fëanor thought bitterly. He had often said as much himself, but Nerdanel had never called him, ‘my lord,’ as she was doing with Fingolfin now. Of course their friendship was much more informal but… this was torture. Why was she smiling at Fingolfin so much? This surely must be more than the amount of smiling required by social courtesy.

 

The worst part was that Fëanor did not believe that Fingolfin knew his capacity to charm others, (“What do you mean she is in love with me, I only said, ‘good day’!”) His step brother in all likelihood thought that he was only being friendly.

 

Fëanor must do something. Anything. He was finished with his work for the day, if not proud of his creation, and he was free to go. He could go over there and tell Fingolfin this, and he will have no excuse to stay since he had come to watch Fëanor after all. This unfortunately meant that Fëanor will not get to speak to Nerdanel much, he had not spoken to her at all today, but this was the price to pay in order to get Fingolfin and his stupid shiny blonde hair away from Nerdanel.

 

He stood up, at once feeling self conscious about his forge clothes. They were well worn and covered in minute flecks of stone from today’s work, while his step brother was infuriatingly dressed in well tailored garments, not having to worry about the grit from crafting which got all over the sculptor. Nerdanel worn the same type of clothes as Fëanor but she looked perfectly at home in them. She carved stone more than he did and thus her arms were nicely toned.

 

He approached Nerdanel’s workspace. Though they had been friends with her for so long, Feanor still felt giddy and nervous around her. He had thought that these feelings would fade with time but apparently not. “I am finished for the day, if you are ready, we may leave,” he announced, breaking into their conversation. Feanor prayed that his step brother would agree and they cold go quickly.

 

“Feanor!” Said Nerdanel, “I did not see you at all today, and you are already leaving?” She had noticed that fact that he had not spoken to her, which meant that he was in her thoughts possibly on a daily basis, even if they did not talk- how thrilling.

 

Less so was Fingolfin, who Fëano had briefly forgotten all about when Nerdanel spoke to him, saying, “Oh, you two know each other?” He meant it as a throwaway remark, but Fëanor’s heart sank, not for the first time during this day. He had never mentioned Nerdanel to his step family, not because she was not important, but precisely because she was a significant part of his life, and he did not want to share her or the times they spent together.

 

“Yes, we have been friends ever since Fëanor began studying under my father,” Nerdanel replied flatly. Her unspoken question: And in all that time, he has never once mentioned me? hanging in the air.

 

“Ah, you must be the gorgeous and talented artisan Fëanor talks about so often, I thought that you might be, but I could not recall your name- forgive me I am terrible with them,” said Fingolfin smoothly. Before Fëanor could process what had just transpired, Fingolfin said that he would go and thank Mahtan for allowing him to visit, and left them.

 

“Fëanor, and do not dare not answer me, did you honestly tell your family I was talented-”

 

“Yes.” Vala forgive him, Fëanor had thought it and told her quite often at least, if not his step family.

 

But she was not done with him yet, “- and gorgeous? ” Yes, why had Fingolfin felt the need to add that adjective in, he wondered.

 

“I...possibly, something like that,” he answered hurriedly.

 

“Well, what a stunning revelation, I never knew that you cared!” She was teasing him, and enjoying it immensely. All this was Fingolfin’s fault.

 

Trying to change subject, Fëanor cut in: “And I did not know that you favored golden hair.”

 

“What?” She truly seemed confused, not rising to denial or even blushing. Well. Perhaps they really had been having an ordinary conversation and Fëanor’s jealous mind had only imagined any attraction on her part. It would make sense. He had never seen her show interest in any youth before now at least.

 

“I meant- nothing, nevermind.”

 

Shaking her head Nerdanel replied, “You are so strange sometimes, Fëanor, honestly.”

 

Seeing his step brother coming towards them, Fëanor went to meet him, leaving behind a very bewildered Nerdanel. But better to be thought strange than to have her fancy Fingolfin, and thus he was in higher spirits than he had been all day as he walked back to the palace. The walk seemed longer in his his step brother’s company, but at least Fingolfin was quiet.

 

As much as Fëanor hated unnecessary conversations with him, he had to know why Fingolfin had saved him back in the forge with Nerdanel. “Why did you tell her that I had said those things when I never had, when I never even mentioned her to you?” He asked bluntly.

 

“It seemed like the polite thing to do,” replied Fingolfin. “If there was a reason you never mentioned her, she need not know it. I am sure you did not mean to offend her.” Well, of course Fëanorhad not.

 

“And why did you have to say that I said she was, ‘gorgeous,’ it was unneeded, and now she may think that I-”

 

“The worst idea that she will get is that you fancy her, which you obviously do,” Fingolfin answered.

 

“Whatever you are getting at, it is incorrect,” Fëanor said coldly, feeling his blood freeze in his veins.

 

“You repeatedly glanced in her direction throughout the day,” Fingolfin began.

 

“Oh how astute. It is actually possible to look at things or people without-”, but his step brother was not finished presenting the damning evidence he had collected.

 

“I watched you two together after I went to thank Mahtan. With Nerdanel you look happier than I have ever seen you- not that the bar is set so high. You might have actually even smiled at her.”

 

Fëanor was silent. To observe such small details and to understand what they meant in relation to a person’s heart was beyond him. Fingolfin had guessed right. Fëanor hated that he of all people should be first to know, not Nerdanel herself, and then his step family when their engagement was formally announced.

 

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, she seems very well suited to you,” offered Fingolfin as Fëanor continued to brood.

 

At least, he thought well of Nerdanel, that was something. Fëanor tried to think positively, “It is not none of your business, and I warn you to stay out of it.” He tried come up with something to threaten Fingolfin with and, not knowing him well enough, failed.

 

They reached the palace and Fëanor could finally depart his step brother’s company. Once alone, he examined the events of the day. The more he reflected, Fingolfin’s comment had not been horrendously bad. Nerdanel had not seemed bothered by the fact that Fëanor had praised her to his family, on the contrary, she had seemed rather- pleased? Yes, she had teased him about it but nicely so, and the inescapable fact remained that it had been because of Fingolfin's quick speech. His action had been unnecessary, and certainly uncalled for considering Fëanor’s treatment of him since- well forever really. Yet he had done so anyway.

 

While Fëanor would not go so far as to actually thank him, he supposed that he could make some effort to act slightly nicer to his half brother for an amount of time equal to Fingolfin’s action anyway.


	18. The Sundering Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Erendis perished in the water in the year 985,'- Aldarion and Erendis, The Book of Lost Tales.But she did not die because she missed Aldarion.

The woman poised on the top of a cliff remained still a moment more, and then let herself fall. She fell calmly, not flailing her arms, but not swinging her arms over her head like a diver either. This fall was not an accident or for pleasure.

The water closed over Erendis’ head in a freezing, all encompassing baptism of foam and bubbles. She opened her eyes and her vision was remarkably clear, though the salt stung her eyes. It was quiet. When observed from outside, the sea seemed loud, with the waves crashing against the rocks out and back again, the great storms that blew in from it, the great breathing noise as it surged and retreated in, and the sound of gulls crying. But underneath it all, now, when she has finally slipped beneath its waves, the sea was quiet, so quiet that Erendis’ thoughts thought echo around her own head. She surfaced and her ears were full of noise again, not much, she had not picked a crowded spot for her own death, and no one was around, but the ambient noise of the world surrounded her. But the sea did not care about the world. Even now the water sloshed past her, each time pulling with it bits of the shore, taking.

The water was searing cold, so cold that it defied the meaning of the word. The temperature made her gasp, breath violently tearing itself out of her throat. It burned, and yet the freezing water seemed to sharpen her surroundings, clearing her vision, her mind. It was winter, too cold for swimming. She did not know if Aldarion has ever swum in such conditions. He certainly had sailed- away from her, standing on the dock, wrapped in furs, shielding herself from the salt spray- in winter. Even the chill wind from the water, unescapable on a ship’s decks, did not deter him. Erendis never questioned pressed Aldarion for details about voyages, but perhaps he too had jumped in- though from a the bow of a ship, not over a rocky cliff- during winter. He may have even swum near the base of this cliff.

She had hoped that the fall would not kill her, as Erendis did not wish her corpse to be discovered broken and shredded by rocks, and so she had lept towards an open patch of water. It had been a straight path downwards through the rushing air, and she had landed smoothly. Now her fate was completely in the hands of the sea. The water made Erendis feel like she was in a great bowl, only her, the waves, and the sky, reflecting a dull gray brightness against the water although the day was cloudy. Beautiful.

Her dress swirled around her in the water, like laundry. She was completely immersed. Erendis had never been swimming fully before, her whole body wet, so far from shore. When she was young Erendis had been forced to learn how to swim in a large pond, and even hated that.

Aldarion has attempted press her into swimming on one golden afternoon when the sun glinted off the water, reflecting in a shower of gold. She had refused again and again. After she had come to the end of what could be considered polite refusal, still Aldarion asked her, bringing up the heat of the day and the refreshing look of the water. Erendis had hated the idea, but she knew to bring up her fear would sour their outing, so she had kissed him, desperately, frantic to distract him. The afternoon had taken a different turn after that, better than swimming anyway.

Thus it had always been, Erendis against the sea in contest for his heart, and for a time she had won him, but the sea was unchanging, untouched by time, and had pulled him back, in the end. _Uinen, you bitch,_ she had thought, whenever she sighted the ocean.

“Lonely is the life of a mariner’s wife,” many people said to her. She hated it, and once when an old man at a court dinner had trotted it out, Erendis had responded, “Well, perhaps it would not be such a lonely life, if their wives were actually allowed on the damn boats, and not shunned from ships and docks as bad luck. It seems that this whole situation is the men’s fault, running away from us and refusing to let us sail forth with them despite the fact that Uinen herself, this vaunted deity of the sea is a woman and holds all their lives in their hands.” Erendis had spoken sweetly, but the vitriol in her own words surprised her. Her speech was the uncomfortably close to the truth, and her dinner companion did not respond.

In Emerië, the pastured tree land, her true homeland away from Aldarion, there were rivers and lakes big enough for sailing, and some of her women built boats and pilotted them. Erendis permitted it grudgingly, mostly because who was she to keep women away from what they would do? And freshwater did not displease her so much- it was necessary to keep her forests alive anyway.

Death by the sea was the best thing she could think of to get back at him. She was old, older than Aldarion, not in years but in body, and she did not want to let him win at anything, not even the game of death. Her hair was streaked with white, like the sea and her body was falling apart. She knew that if she did not take measures into her own hands, the creeping specter of ordinary age would do it for her.

She was not a Númenorean and her life would be spent far sooner than his. Erendis was tired of living, and wanted a non-ordinary death to spite Aldarion and his long life. He can choose to surrender his soul to death whenever he wanted to, and now she can too. Suicide, the more crude, ordinary version was unthinkable for his people, but they will pity her, and as for him...

Erendis has not seen Aldarion is years, but he will be notified about her death. She had left no note, no letter, and those who find her body will be perplexed by why she did it, chiefly Aldarion. Erendis was far too old to be inconveniently pregnant, so that female suicide motive could be eliminated, but she hoped that her act will torment her husband. Killing herself in the sea was the best thing she could think of to strike back at him and his love of another that had plagued their marriage. Henceforth, the sea will always be what killed Erendis, and every time he sailed, he will be traveling over her grave. She will have poisoned the main thing that he had left, for there was no lost love between his daughter and Aldarian. Good.

Ancalimë will be upset, of course, furious perhaps, and she will have to deal with the men with power making a great fuss over her taking the throne, but Erendis had taught her daughter well, and she will prevail. Erendis imagined the fierce joy that will fill her daughter's face as she hears the words, “The queen is dead, long live the queen.” Ancalime will be a great ruler, the first in history, and despite the unhappiness of Erendis’ life after she joined it with Númenor, she was exceedingly proud that she has had a hand in bringing this about.

Even had her later relationship with Aldarion been sweet, she would not have born another child, for fear that it would be a son who would take her daughter's rightful claim to the throne. Of course in the later years of their relationship Erendis would not have let Aldarion touch her, not for anything.

Ancalimë was married, but that cannot be helped. A barren ruler and a woman would have been too much to be born at once. She will have a direct heir and, provided her husband stayed out of things, a queenship of her own. Erendis did not care whether Ancalime’s rule does the kingdom well, only that it will be hers, hers despite the men who foam at the mouth at the thought of a female ruler.

She was not drowning properly. After the initial fall, she had bobbed to the surface, and now remained, rocked by the motion of the water, but in no danger. The sea does not seem to want to kill her. The one time when she was completely at its mercy, and she was rejected, ignored. Erendis will have to do the drowning herself. At this thought a wave slapped her face in a desultory manner. The sea did not want her sacrifice.

She knew what death by water entailed: the lungs of the drowned filled with water as the person was trapped underwater gasped for air. Erendis took a deep breathe- then realized that this was defeating her purpose- and ducked her head under the water. Her heart beat faster; she had imagined every detail of this except the actual death part, and now she was faced with it, after an entire lifetime of fearing such when she walked near beaches, or near high sea cliffs, after an entire lifetime of waking from nightmares flailing, gasping.

But she had willingly gone to Uinen, and so Erendis opened her mouth, feeling the water’s salty, almost rancid taste against her tongue. Thinking about the harm she would cause to Aldarion and the royal funeral she would receive, Erendis forced herself to breathe it in.

Instantly she realized that all the songs about brave drowned sailors and brave maidens in watery graves were wrong. They portrayed drowning as passive, peaceful, as letting the water ebb your life away. It was not. The salt water stung as it traveled down her windpipe burning agony like liquid fire, erasing the cold around her. The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced, close only to the pain of childbirth- in both cases she was giving bits of her life away, then to her daughter, now to Uinen.

Now her body became heavy as she thrashed about, trying to reach the surface, although what good would air do, as the water had already reached her lungs and clogged their breathing.

She had taken in quite a lot of water on the first time. Erendis felt her mouth open and gasp reflexively again, before she broke through to the air. This was only for a brief time and she sank back down, her body becoming heavier, waterlogged, with no new supply of air. She closed her eyes to protect them against the raw scrape of the salt, but this loss of vision only added to her disorientation. Salt water leaked out of her eyes, her own version of the sea’s water trying to protect her from the real thing.

She was coughing and gasping, a horrible noise to hear, when she got her head above water. At least under the sea her choking was muffled, quieted by the expansive silence. Even with her eyes open, things were becoming darker. She expected that there would be blood from her torn vocal cords, but the water was clear. After she stopped her thrashing, the water will be untouched. She will have made no mark on this place. This was one of the reasons why Erendis hated the sea, because it was an enemy that could not be touched, that could not be beaten or injured or even contained.

Though she still felt the fierce pain in her lungs and throat, they seemed to be detached from her mind. A different person was drowning. This was a suitable end to her life as any. It was violent, raw, and better than the quiet end anyone could have envisioned for Aldarion’s estranged Edain wife.

It was a shame that she could not leave these waters, free from her fear. For now that she had experienced it, though drowning seemed terrible still, it was now known, faceable. Her new knowledge brought light into the dark of her fear, revealing the monster to be only shadows.

But she will never leave. Erendis thought of her final act against Aldarion, smiled viciously, and surrendered- for the first time in her life- to the sea.


	19. The Right To Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She is purely herself, complete, Tar-Telperiën, not needing another, not wanting. She only lusts for life, the longest quality of it that she can get." The life of the second Ruling Queen.

Tar-Telperiën is good at embroidery. All kinds of being actually, delicate needle work, making clothes, fixing tears, although she doe snot have to do the last two things for herself, because she is the Ruling Queen of all of Númenor, and has many servants.People are surprised when she says that she enjoys sewing, embroidery most of all. “You enjoy things like that?” Comes the tentative question. Things like that meaning feminine things. Thing that women do. “Because,” says the second part of the question, the part that people keep to themselves, although Tar-Telperiën knows that they are thinking it. “You are so much like a man, thinking, and ruling, that how could you like sewing too?” It is incongruous to the askers that she can like both, and not wholly fit into their idea of a man or a women. In these times, she could suggest that sewing, or ruling, or anything are simply actions, that can and should be undertaken by both sexes, but she usually does not, letting the comments go, nodding and smiling, a womanly thing to do. “Yes, I enjoy it,” she replies.

As she grew up, no one ever told her that she would be the ruler. Yes, she was taught lessons, sewing, mathematics and politics, but she was not told that all this was directed to making her a good future ruler. Though she was the first born, her father never mentioned her birthright, and she discovered it on her own, while perusing a book of Númenorean laws. “I shall be the Ruling Queen,” the young girl had thought, sitting back on her heels on the bench where she had knelt above the heavy tomb. “Just as it says here. I have not other siblings, and I will not renounce my right.” She had looked out the window, seeing the sky, sea, and lands differently now. “I am to be the Ruling Queen. And all this kingdom shall be mine.”

She mentioned it to her father, having held in the wonderful secret as long as she could. Telperiën did not understand why she had not been told about from birth, perhaps not to spoil her, but she was twelve already, and she should have been told. But she was mainly happy as she showed her father the book, pointing to the law with her finger so he could not miss it. Maybe he had only forgotten. “Right?” Telperiën had asked, worried that she had missed something and that he would correct her, like her tutors when she made an obvious mistake.

“Yes- very good, Tel,” he had replied, like an adult did when a child made a true but inconvenient statement. “But many things may change before you come of age. You could marry and the title pass to your husband. You could even renounce your right to rule.” He said this last option as is it were an amusing option for a day trip, possible, pleasant.

“I would never do that!” She had replied, stung that he had not forgotten and would keep such important information from her. “And the law says that a women may rule if she is the first born, which I am. even if I marry the right will still be mine.”

“The law does say that,” her father replied, and Telperiën had hated him in that moment, knowing that to be given anything less than what she had found would be unfair. She detested unfairness.

She had picked up the book, lugging it under her arm and stalked off down the hall, her words echoing in her head, determined, a battle cry. My right. My right.

  
And she had gotten it, in the end. If Tar-Telperiën held tighter to her rule than all the men before her, who could blame her?

The main complaint against her, for all her reign, is that she has dared to go forth into the realm of men. That Tar-Telperiën had the audacity to be a woman loudly and in public. This she proudly would admit to. The second is that she refuses to marry and have children, that with her example she is driving women out of their homes, encouraging them to deny their basic roles as mothers and wives, thereby ripping society to shreds.

The papers and speeches that carry such sentiments- which she lets exist because they are part of a free society, although she hates it sometimes and longs to have them shut down, knowing that she holds the power to do- ignore the fact that women have always done such things, albeit in smaller numbers. The queen watches proudly as in her reign more women than ever become artisans, teachers, scholars. Telperiën puts women in her government, to great consternation, and in her navy to greater. Women are not just left to wait on the docks by the sea anymore, they sail forth, west with men, or without them, on their own ships when they are barred entrance on existing ones because of the supposed bad luck that they bring. A pregnant woman even delivers her baby on a months long all female voyage, and Tar-Telperiën thinks that is this is going against traditional society, then that society can burn to the ground and she will gladly scatter its ashes.

This is one of the reasons why she clings to life so forcefully, because she knows that so much of this progress is contingent upon her staying in power. Though she has female ministers, and though her successor will be Minastir, her nephew, a good man who she instructs about creating a fair society for men and women as much as she can, Telperiën still worries because Minastir is still a good man, and so much of her carefully laid plans, the edicts, the funding, the public support, may be dismantled after her death. There are those who would see it done.

As for discouraging woman from marriage and childbearing, it is true that Telperiën has never married, but she has also never degraded those who did.

She likes children well enough, and if she had married and born one, of course she would have loved it to the best of her ability. But she has no husband and does not want one, so she contents herself with watching the children of others, the infants often brought into the place accompanying their mothers as they were still nursing or too small to be left alone. To her marriage holds no interest. It is simply an agreement of loyalty between two parties, with a physical side added to distinguish it from friendship. Friendship she already has, with women and with men, and she had never wanted the second thing, not even as a youth.   
She is purely herself, complete, Tar-Telperiën, not needing another, not wanting. She only lusts for life, the longest quality of it that she can get.

Life. She clutches it with both hands, exceeding the limits set by former kings. She craves life, continued existence, continuing to be, to experience everything, not to miss a single moment, decision, or invention of the future. It is not youth that she wants, fickle, fading. Tar-Telperiën does not care about beauty, as she tells the young women she meets they are so much more than just their looks, but life itself- that she wants and her soul may have to be rent from her body, for she could not see herself giving it up willingly.

When her scant experiences with physical relations proved disappointing, Tar- Telperiën initially told herself that it was because the other was not skilled enough, or because she did not feel strongly enough. With someone else it would be different, better, enjoyable, but eventually she replied that she did not desire anyone, and dropped her searching entirely. Even if she had wanted to marry, would she? Would she have seen her marriage as a diminishment of self, as a ceding of her power? Tar-Ancalimë, the first woman to rule had a husband because she was forced to, and he had not usurped her power. But Tar-Telperiën is not sure that she would want to take that chance. The door of the hen house should not be left open, even if all of the foxes are tame.

Tar- Telperiën embroiders during her council’s meetings, whatever project she is currently working on. Right now it is a series of tapestries depicting the history of Númenor from Elros and on, with extra care to show Tar-Ancalimë. She sits at the head of the room, robed, crowned, working her needle in and out, listening speaking without breaking her work. “Why do you do that?” asks Merlimé, one of her personal guards, the first women to be trained as such, but not the last. “Does it not cause them to lose respect for you, to see you doing such a womanly thing?” For while the ruler may appoint other positions, the council seats remain until death, the members left over from the last king. Her council is all men, and not all are friendly to her, but Telperien takes comfort in the fact that at the end of her rule she can leave X with all women.

“My embroidery is a constant reminder to them that I am a woman, just as my crown tells them that I am the ruler. I will let them forget neither. And I have never put stock in respect only granted to me because I act only as a man.” This is true, and Tar-Telperiën’s public reason, but in truth she had begun to do so because the council meetings were quite incredibly dull. She listens, takes in the necessary information, leaves with her current work closer to completion, and irritates some members to no end. A victory on all fronts.

Had there been a war she would have embroidered during those councils too, her needle moving across the fabric in blood red and armor gray. But there has not been a war, or even a hint of one in all her years as ruler, and if the alliances that she thinks about every night hold, there is no danger of one.

Tar-Telperiën, she always adds her title when thinking of her name because ruling is such an important and dominating part of her life, is a good ruler, she hopes, she tries to be. She is loved by many women in the kingdom, and almost as many men. She will release her spirit the moment when she feels that she can no longer do them good, but that moment eludes her for now. She sits with her elven allies, examining their timeless faces, ageless eyes, and wishes herself like them. Never to fade or to perish naturally. But with long life comes deeper sorrows. She has lost so many friends and Minastir is all the she has left of her brother and his wife. And yet she continues on, for them in a way, determined to taste the years that they could not. And for herself too, of course, because she enjoys the power that she holds; Telperiën cannot lie about that, not even to herself. She looks out over her kingdom, seeing it as hers, the child that she never bore, something carefully cultivated, raised from birth, causing sorry and pain, anger and worry, but at the end of it all something that she would give her life to protect and something that she loves beyond measure.

Her name is close to the Elvish word, Telperion, the silver tree in the West that once gave the light of evening. Even when it has died, the tree’s final act had been to bear the fruit that even now sails in the dark sky, illuminating the night, controlling the tides that are so very important to Númenorean life. I am Telperiën, she thinks, to my people. I am their guardian, their protector, the one who watches over their sleep. She would never voice this to anyone, patriotism in a man is arrogance in a woman. But she looks towards the moon anyway, thinking of that tree, her namesake. “I give light to this kingdom,” she thinks. It is her honor, her privilege, and her right.

 

 

 


	20. Call Me Ruler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Two hundred and five years she holds the scepter, vowing to outlast her enemies, and solidify her place in the history books with this, if nothing else, so that she cannot be written out, only a name on a genealogy." Tar-Ancalimë rules.

Mámandil sings to Emerwen, the shepherdess, who is Ancalimë the princess, although he does not know it.

He takes songs of epic lovers: Beren and Luthien, Tuor and Idril, Earendil and Elwing, Thingol and Melian, and changes the names so that the ballads speak of Mámandil and Emerwen, stealing a Silmaril, sailing to Valor, piloting a ship in the stars, ruling Doriath. Ancalimë listens to his songs, but pretends not to understand their meanings, and turns away when he tries to kiss her. She is feigning this ignorance, of course. He is tolerable company, and his singing is pleasant enough, but he does not understand that she likes to hear her name in the old songs because of the level they elevate her to, not because she likes the idea of marrying him.

She wants to hear about Emerwen seducing Morgoth, walking away from the ruined Gondolin, surviving, jumping over a cliff to spite the sons of Fëanor, or turning a man’s mind so completely that he forgot his name and his people all together, and wishes that the parts of the songs talking only of the women were longer. But the ballads are love songs and their whole point is that each of the pair is incomplete without the other.

Which is wrong; her own parents marriage has fallen apart so completely that she has only seen her father a few times, and lives with her mother in the countryside. Both her parents seem fine on their own. Ancalimë would not like to be finished by someone else, for it implies that she herself alone was imperfect, and she is not.

As loathe as she is to marry, Ancalimë knows that she may have to, if she wants to claim what is hers. Her family is tangled, and some say that she should not rule. Barely after her birth, her parents had begun to live apart, her father ruling, and her mother with her. Some beg Erendis, her mother, to reconcile with her father and bear an heir, a boy they mean, for the good of the kingdom.

When Ancalimë was little she feared that her mother would agree, and prayed to Uinen that it would not be so, throwing her jewelry and coins as an offering into a river at Emerië, the closest she could get to the Vala’s ocean domain. Her mother hated Uinen, and Ancalimë had learned of her through others, but she would take any intercession that she could get. She wanted the scepter undisputedly as hers, with no interference from a younger brother, or sister either, though that would not be as troubling. Uinen had granted her prayers, and she remained an only child.

But now that she is older, she knew that she had nothing to fear. Erendis would never go back to Aldarion. She always calls him that to Ancalimë, not ‘your father.’ Erendis said that if his only child was a girl it was his own fault, for in times of trouble, the Númenoreans did not beget children so they would not be born into suffering. Her mother was from Brethil, and she had found this foreign custom idiotic. Ancalimë thinks so too because turmoil is not a valid reason to deprive oneself of pleasure, but she was glad that her father had, thereby leaving a clearer path to ascend to the throne.

She did not want to be queen right away, for now she was content to stay as Emerië, the haven her mother had built around herself, sheltering her from men and from the sea, to be Emerwen Aranel, hiding her royal identity to be free of men seeking her hand in advantageous marriage.

But someday, someday, she will leave, with a great retinue behind her, taking all the women who would go as handmaids and advisors. Her coronation will be great and glorious and while she knew that her mother had renounced the Númenorean court forever, Erendis will be very proud of her daughter, the queen.

Not the ruling queen, just the queen, for to add the adjective implies that the ordinary queen has no power, and that a special exception must be made to the queen so that she may hold office. “What if we said ruling king?” Ancalimë asks the women that she has grown up with. “How silly that would be, because the king holds power, inherently not with an added conference. In the same way, to accept the usage of the term ‘ruling queen’ is to…” Ancalimë’s mind cuts through language, separating and rearranging it into new terms, and she thinks that maybe when she ascends to the throne, she will simply call herself a ruler, and remove the need for separate titles altogether.

“You must wed,” Soronto, her cousin tells her, as her father begins to go more and more out to sea, voyaging and leaving behind the concerns of those on land. “If you are to assume your birthright.”

“My birthright you say and yet you would presume to take it from me if I do not follow your commands.” Ancalimë is coldly furious, her voice flat.

“But I am married, and we do have the succession of the line to think of. Your father saw this same difficulty and agreed to do so when he married your mother. And your situation is the first of its kind.” A woman, he means, and Ancalimë hates him, knowing that his desire for the throne is equal with hers. She privately spits in his wine before serving it to him, and smiles sharply as he rides away, having told Soronto that she will think on the matter.

And think on it she does, for hours on end. It keeps her up at night and in the day distracts her from the idyllic life as a shepherd. Ancalimë tells no one else. Her trial is hers to bear, and her mother would be horrified to know that her daughter is even considering marrying. But Erendis wants her daughter on the throne as well, and this seems to be the only way that she can ascend to it. There is no choice that she could make that will not bring Ancalimë sorrow.

But she chooses power and marriage over happiness and staying unwed, and that afternoon she lets Mámandil kiss her for the first time, trying to feel something as he does so, telling herself that her parents began in love and fell out of it, and that she can do the opposite with him.

She briefly fears that their match would be impeded, because he is a shepherd, and it is the new law, after her father’s marriage that all heirs must wed in the line of Elros. Then she will have to turn to some other man who wants her for the title, but after revealing who she really is, Ancalimë not Emerwen, he answers that he too is a noble with a false name, his real one being Hallacar, He says that he knew who she really was along, and she is infuriated, for Ancalimë hates trickery in anyone but herself, and he has gotten the upper hand in this situation. “Fine. Let us wed then,” she answers, a brusk proposal, and stalks away, feeling lost at Emerië for the first time in her life.

He will not be a bad husband. He does love, at least he says, both Ancalimë and Emerwen, and his willingness to live so long as a shepherd seems to point to humility and willingness to let her rule. Not that she needs either quality, for when they wed she will have complete power, so says the law, but it is nice nonetheless. And she needs him to have the necessary heir, and she will not mind that part at least, she tells herself. He is handsome, she cannot deny that. Perhaps she will bear children in times of war, in defiance of the set custom.

Both she and Soronto know that she did not need to wed to produce a heir. The line could be passed on to another noble of her choosing- she has other cousins apart from him- but that would not do. He forces the condition upon her, and Ancalimë accepts, understanding that these things must be done in steps: she will be accepted only if she marries, but the next women will be free of this, and the women after her may be able to pick which one of her children she wants to rule, regardless of birth order and sex, who can say? Ancalimë will advance slowly, but it will because of her that Númenorian women will begin to advance at all.

When she prepares to leave Emerië, to go to and wed, she is overcome with melancholy, knowing that though she may return, things will never be the same. She pulls some of the flowers from her hair and throws them into the river, as one last offering to Uinen: let me be happy, let my reign be filled with glory. Please, she adds, not too proud to beg silently. She rides from her beloved pastures, indeed followed by women as she imagined once, and does not look back.

At her coronation, the long awaited day which she enjoys more than her wedding, Ancalimë looks directly at Soronto, flooded with sweet triumph. I won! she cries joyfully to herself, not minding that the man officiating the ceremony, some relative that she does not know, calls her a ruling queen. Ruler, she changes it in her mind every time.

“You look so powerful,” says Hallacar to her, as he stands slightly behind her on the platform. “You will do your kingdom well.” Ancalimë is so happy on this, the most important day of her life, that she feels kindness towards anyone, and she gives her husband the briefest of smiles.

Theirs is not a bad marriage, not wholly. Ancalimë has a baby, Anárion. During the delivery she is in more pain than her mind could have previously imagined existed, and her body twists in motions out of her control. She longs to scream, at her body for the immense torment it inflicts upon itself. But she remembers Erendis’ telling her young daughter to never show weakness to any one. She is a ruler, this is her battle wound, and she bites the inside of her cheek, and she is silent. Show me a man who braved another’s sword like that, she thinks, spitting out blood from where her teeth punctured the part of her mouth that she had held between them. The child that she worked so hard to produced is a boy.

She is not sure if she is disappointed or relieved about this. She wants a daughter, a girl to raise as Erendis raised her, strong and proud, confident and free despite the imposed rules of men, but none comes, and in a small part of her mind she feels herself a failure, that she could only give the kingdom what Soronto and his ilk so desperately feared, not what she herself wanted. She does not think about that. Her happiness relies on putting many things out of her mind.

At least she forgets the pain of his birth easily. It clouds over in her mind, blurring, disappearing, and she feels only protectiveness for this tiny person. It makes no sense, that people say women cannot go into battle because they lack tenacity, or courage, she thinks. She would kill anyone who touched Anárion, and she loves her country just as she loved her son, fiercely, but only as a possession, only as long as it bends only to her will and praises her in return.

  
Erendis, the first person that Ancalimë ever loved, dies, of drowning. Privately Ancalimë thinks that it was deliberate, as a final act of spite against her father. Her mother was not Númenorean, and could not choose when to surrender her life in their way, so she did it in her own. As for the man himself, Aldarion is on voyages more often than not, or away from court. This is fine by her, as their relationship was always cold. Her court is all women, all her age or younger, for the older would not leave their lives at Emerië, or her mother to join her. They are her friends, her companions, and the daughters she never had. If Ancalimë forbids them to wed it is because she loves them so dearly herself, and does not want them to suffer grief at the hands of men, like so many of the women she hears at her public audiences. While she will not give aid to Gil-Galad at Lindon, but she will always have mercy on these battered women, giving them shelter, aid, and death to their husbands.

And she jealous of her women’s love being given to others. She cries bitterly when some run off and marry. Am I not enough for you? Did not give you twice the riches and love that these men can offer you? Some stay with her, through the long years, and she gives them everything she and her power can offer.

As her reign progresses, Ancalimë fears that her life will be shorter than other rulers, because of her mixed heritage- Númenorean and ordinary from her mother- but she continues to live, seeing the troublesome cousin, Soronto buried, and her husband too. For all their fights, the unspoken contests between them, the tricks, and deceptions, part of her will miss him. “He was the finest spouse that a wife could have asked for,” she said composedly at his funeral, not adding that she had not asked for one.

Two hundred and five years she holds the scepter, vowing to outlast her enemies, and solidify her place in the history books with this, if nothing else, so that she cannot be written out, only a name on a genealogy.

The royal portrait she commissions, soon before she renounces life- the only fight that she will ever surrender- is unusual. In it she is shown in all her royal finery, her signet ring clearly visible, that hand over the other, covering the finger that her wedding ring rests on. Her gaze is determined, hostile even, some would say, and beside her, on the ground and almost obscured, is a sword. She holds a lamb in her arms, a reminder of her life at Emerië and a tribute to Erendis, who loved that region. She is shown at middle age, not as she the young women who became the ruling queen.

Why the sword? Many asked. And why was she unsmiling? Had she not had a reign full of peace?

But Ancalimë knows that someday there will be another young girl, one who by luck of birth has come into the right of the throne, and has clings to it, not like her son’s two idiot daughters who have given it up already. This future girl will have to face the same opposition and pressures that Ancalimë did, hopefully lessened by what she has done with the laws, and perhaps she will walk through the hall of the palace filled with portraits of former rulers, stopping in front of the one female face. And she will see the resting sword, not as standing for war, but standing for cutting down your enemies, and the hard face of a ruling women, challenging her audience, challenging the girl and she will leave, remembering the words of Erendis that Ancalimë took care to write over and over in her letters so that they will not be erased: Sink your roots into rock, and face the wind thought it blow away all your leaves.

It is presumptuous to consider herself as an empowering symbol for generations to come, but Tar-Ancalimë has never been above pride, and she wants nothing less than this as her legacy.

 


	21. Imagining Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel is very bad at dealing with feelings and Fëanor shows her something he's made.

There was no specific Vala who governed love.

It was Yavanna, said married couples, the giver of fruits and of children too, it was believed. Others, in the midst of chasing there beloved would say that it was Oromë, the lord of the hunt, of passionate determination. It is Nienna, the unlucky or scorned in love would say, for love is sorrow and pain, mourning for things never to be. Those who were newly, mutually in love would say no, that it was Nessa, the dancer, for love animated the limbs and made the soul free and light.

Nerdanel wished that there was a clear answer so that she could alternatively pray to and curse whoever had so cruelly smote her with this horrible, unwanted love for Fëanor, Fëanor of all people to be in love with! Perhaps it was not the work of a devious Vala, perhaps she herself was to blame, although she certainly did not want to feel this way, and could not see what he had done to deserve this or bring it about. As it was, she prayed to all of them to deliver her from feeling like this.

And yet she did. One moment she and Fëanor were friends as usual, and then there had been some ghastly change, and she had begun to be attracted to him. Everything about him, his looks, voice, and mannerisms, things that she had never noticed before were now beautiful and endearing to her.

And it was so _stupid_ , the way that she became so distracted at the motion of his slender hands as he described his latest project. So stupid, and yet she was stuck with these feelings, causing her blood to heat and her mind to cease functioning whenever he was around. Her pale skin blushed easily, which had never been a problem before since she was at ease with Fëanor before, but now she constantly felt like her face was on fire.

Nerdanel had once laughed at those who lost their minds in love, vowing that if she fell in love she would be the same, not completely witless, and now…

Now here she was, expending so much mental energy on both their interactions and analyzing them afterwards, realizing after, too late what foolish things she had said. Nerdanel thought of him constantly. Even when she worked in the forge she was not free; his work table was behind hers, and she wondered what he was doing most of the day, she wondered if he ever looked at her, but since she was in front, she could not turn her head back too often without being obvious. She took to braiding her hair as intricately as she could, for while she could not safely wear it down, perhaps Fëanor would notice this.

Or perhaps he would not, Nerdanel thought, on their journeys as they lie sleeping, on the same ground, close enough to be tantalizing to her, but not close enough to mean anything. Perhaps this was all in her head, what she thought she had observed, the remarks that could be flirting, or could be nothing. She was imagining things, maybe, maybe not. Fëanor was so difficult to read, especially when her judgement was clouded by passion, and perhaps his actions that Nerdanel thought might possibly indicate interest in her was crafted to fit what she wanted it to be.

She thought about her looks now- another new feeling. Nerdanel knew that her features were not considered pretty, but this had never troubled her before. As an artist she knew that beauty was an elusive concept, and that something considered gorgeous by some was judged nothing by others. Nerdanel liked what she saw in the mirror well enough, but did it match what Fëanor thought of as beautiful? She often was grimy with soot, or sweat, or stone dust, and could not imagine that he found her beautiful then. She had no idea what he even found attractive, they never talked about love, or marriage, or anything to do with romantic interests before, and she was too shy to bring it up now.

Even her art was effected. The shapes that her besotted fingers created dealt with love too, but luckily the were too abstract for anyone to guess at their meanings. Except her, she knew what they meant, and it annoyed her that they looked nice, because she did not want her creativity to come from infatuation.

Being in love was horrible, it was awkward and worrisome and time consuming and stressful. Nerdanel wished that she could chisel away her feelings with one blow, an erroneous bit of stone removed from a statue, leaving it perfect. But these emotions were messy, and could not be removed, and they infuriated her.

It was not all absolutely terrible though, she admitted grudgingly. Today, for example, Nerdanel was posing for him, as he wanted to create her likeness in clay for practice. Clay was a more forgiving medium than stone, although she preferred the latter as it provided a smoother finish, and did not require firing in a kiln, where it could crack before painting.

Fëanor using her as a model did not necessarily indicate interest in her, Nerdanel had decided eventually, for apprentices in the forge often used their friends as models, but he did touch her face once, tilting her head to a slightly different angle, his fingers warm against her cheek, leaving a trace of clay behind, and the breathlessness she experienced as a result of this could not be described as bad, exactly.

Fëanor then brushed her hair away from her neck, it was lossed today, and she thought it either made her look like a fire spirt or like a wild animal, hopefully the first. She shivered slightly, and unfortunately he noticed and jerked his hand away at once, mistaking her movement for disgust, and sitting back down to resume sculpting. Fantastic, Nerdanel thought, now he thought that she did not want to be touched, and there was no subtle way to tell him otherwise. She was very bad at all of this.

Nerdanel was quiet as she sat. Though she liked being around him more than ever, her mind was now empty of things to actually say. At least his silence was because he was working, not out of boredom or disinterest with her. The project was only a bust, head and shoulders, and she was glad that he had asked her to model for him first, so it would not be odd if she asked him to return the favor. Then Nerdanel could study Feanor’s face to her heart’s content, without drawing suspicion, although she was not sure how well she would be actually be able to concentrate on sculpting. It was a clever plan nonetheless- her wits were not entirely gone.

“There,” said Fëanor, setting down the tool he was using to make indentations in the clay. Nerdanel, being an artisan herself knew that no work was every done the first time the artist declared it so, and that he would continue to make alterations, but she hopped off her stool anyway, stretching her back which had been still all the time that she posed, and circled the table to look. It was a very good likeness, not just in the physical details and proportions, but in the way that this shaped bit of clay, molded to look like her, seemed to capture her spirit. “You will be better than me at sculpting, if you keep producing work like this.”

“Do you feel threatened now, o greatest sculptor?”

“I said if, if you keep producing this kind of work,” she said, the ‘greatest,’ causing a warm feeling in her chest, even if it was only said in joking banter and untrue besides.

Instead of a comeback, Fëanor shrugged and said, “I have been working on something, it is a bit odd but- would you like to see?” An odd change of subject, Nerdanel noted. Did Fëanor want her to stay? Did he wish to be in her company because he craved being around her, like she did him? Or was she just…imagining things, Nerdanel thought again, for the thousandth time.

Whatever, if he had meant to do that if had worked and she was interested. “Yes, I do.” Fëanor swept a portion of his table clear, spread a paper, and began to mark it with a stick of charcoal. The paper under his hands began to be covered with sweeping curves, dots, and titled vertical slashes above straight lines. Some of them bore a resemblance to the letters of the alphabet, but others were utterly foreign, like nothing she had seen.

“It is an alphabet, well the beginnings of one anyway. Like Rumil's but my own.”

  
“You just made up letters?” It had never occurred to Nerdanel that such a thing could be done but was that not how all languages and writing began?

“Some of it comes from Rumil’s of course, but I added letters, and tried to devise methods to ease the writing and prevent confusion.” It was beautiful. Any word could be written in this script and look graceful, no matter its meaning.

“I love it,” Nerdanel said. Inventing a new letter system must have been difficult, but it was also ingenious and such a Fëanor thing to do. “Show me how to write my name please.” He demonstrated, writing the word so quickly that is seems as if he had written it many times before, but that could not be- he must just know his invention well. Her name was rendered in a neat line of loops, some of them dotted with other symbols above. “So which letter is which?”

Fëanor wrote the corresponding letters under his, explaining the placement of the vowels over the proceeding consonants. “Now you try,” he said, handing the charcoal stick to her.

Nerdanel took it, but these markings were unfamiliar and she did not know which strokes to make first. Her version looks like his, more of less, but it was more laborious to write. "Here," Fëanor said, examining her attempt. "It is easier if you put the vowels on over the letters as you go, rather than adding them at the end. He reached over her hand with his and guided them both across the paper. Nerdanel was very concious of his arm around her, for she had been writing with her right hand and he was on her left, so of course he had to reach around her to guide her hand. However practical explanations did not slow her heart's much increased speed.

"What are you going to do with this system of writing?" Nerdanel turned her head as she asked this, but found that they were almost nose to nose as Fëanor bent over the paper and dropped her gaze at once.

"I do not know. Maybe nothing."

"You should not let it go to waste like that, incorporate it into your forge works maybe."

"Well, I have shown it to you so it is not wasted."

"You could do so much with this, imagine if all of Valinor used this!" Nerdanel continued, missing his remark.

"Who would?"

"I would. Will you teach me all of it?" Their hands became covered in charcoal as he did. It was easier than using ink, but messier. Nerdanel noted that she still like the look of Fëanor's hands when they were covered in charcoal, and maybe he thought the same about hers, but no, her hands looked the same as always, pale, and freckled, with an added layer of black grit.

Fëanor told her to practice the writings on her own, and she did. Alone in her room she wrote, 'I love you, I love you,' over and over, and their names together with no space in between. Afterwards, she burned the paper, embarrassed at her folly. They curl up into ashes; her feelings for him remain.

 


	22. A Witchy Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tar-Míriel gains power for herself, finally.

Miríel feels the ground torn away from her feet and replaced with water. Instantly she knows that she is going to die, and left her body go limp, submitting to death, welcoming it. Is that not what the Valar want? Is that not why their county is being punished, flooded, sunk, because of her husband, Ar- Pharazôn and his followers who refused to go gently into death and went West to escape it? Mired does not cry out, for throughout her whole life, she has learned that a woman shrieking against injustices is ignored, and she is silent and letting the water take her swiftly.

But she does not die as fast as all that. She is in the raging ocean, but her head surfaces again, and she feels her body falling and rising with the swell of the waters. Either the sea will push its way into her lungs, or she will be dashed against the rocks and debris that swirl around her, as the landscape, even Meneltarma, is destroyed.

Her dress wraps around her legs like a shroud. Its sleeves filled with pockets of air, deflating, sinking. She can swim, all Númenoreans can, but no stroke she knows can help her as the land itself is totally washed over with water. It is hard enough to stay afloat in the tide, and perhaps she will just lose strength and sink underneath the water with Númenor itself. Her mind is blank. Everyone else is dead or will be soon, and she wants to join them.

The heavy ocean presses against her on all sides. Disorientated and chocking, Miríel finally, finally, blacks out.

Waking up is unpleasant. There is salt water stinging her eyes, and her stomach, and her lungs. She sits up and at once vomits up a huge quantity of sea water, not pure but filled with bits of seaweed, and other unrecognizable detritus that must be from the ruins of Númenor. Her wedding ring has been removed from her hand- she does not count this as a loss- and her clothes have been changed. She is wearing long black robes, of a fabric unknown to her. She pushes back the long sleeves to look at her body, and find it crisscrossed with cuts, but that they are not bleeding or even red. Her skin is overly pale, and she wonders if all her blood has drained out of the two deep, and seemingly deliberate cuts on each of her wrists.

Miríel touches her heart to find it still, and holds a finger under her nose to find it undisturbed by breath. She knows that she died in the waves, but she is here, and not dead, and her brain gasps under the tide of confusion.

She is crouched on a cold floor, too smooth to be the ocean’s sandy bottom. It is marble, the floor of the temple to Melkor, her husband’s domain, where she had seldom gone unless compelled, and a ring of newly drawn dark charcoal shapes surround her. There is a window opposite, and Miríel sees that the outside of the temple is completely under water, drowned. But this room seems to contain a pocket of air, which does not make sense, the building was not waterproof. Again she is uncertain and feels helpless. “Hello?” Miríel shouts, or tries to. Her voice has a distorted sound to it, from the swallowed salt water.

“You are calling for the dead, and they will not answer,” replies a voice instantly, and she whirls around, scrambling up from hands and knees, to see something emerging from the shadows cast by the statue of Melkor at the front of the altar.

It takes Miríel a moment to realize that the thing speaking to her is even a man. Much of the skin of the face has been burned away, leaving more of the teeth and the bones composing the sockets of the eyes exposed. The eyes themselves are bloodshot and seem to bulge because of the absence of surrounding skin. The limbs are not right, somehow, they seem twisted beyond use, and yet he moves toward her. Miríel finally recognizes him as Sauron, the high priest who brought this destruction about. Now he appears as a broken power, loosely robed in human flesh.

The plan that brought down Númenor was his; now it has failed, and he has been punished like the rest of them, but he is not human, and never was and cannot be throughly killed, she realizes swiftly. If this is the punishment for him, then what is being done with the souls of the ordinary men?

“Sauron!” Miríel screams at him, substituting volume for true bravery. “What have you done to me?”

“I saved your life,” he replies cooly, in the same false pleasantry that he used with her in life. This is not true; her life was lost, but she looks at the shapes drawn on the floor, and thinks: necromancy. He has pulled her soul back and reanimated her body. Not even her husband, or his followers went that far in their evils. Sauron has kept this one power to himself, or they would have had no need to seek immortality on ships.

“For what purpose?” She is rooted in place, wanting to collapse back into the ignorance of unconsciousness, but his magic will not let her.

“Miríel, everyone you ever knew has perished in those waters. Even those that escaped will never be able to recreate the life that you and your people once led.”

So some did manage to get out. Sauron is using her real name, not Ar-Zimraphel. Miríel feels terrified, but mesmerized too, like she is having a conversation with a snake coiled around her hand. “And? What do you need from me?”

“Need? Absolutely nothing,” Sauron spreads his hands wide, and Míriel sees that he has lost the jewelry he used to wear on them, and several of his fingers as well. “But what I want, I want you as champion, a warrior to lead armies in coming wars.”

“If this is your final plan it is more foolish than the first. Even if I would follow you, I am weak and hold no power that could serve you.” She tries to spit at him, but her mouth is empty of saliva, and all that it produces is a broken bit of shell.

“I took you from the drowned dead, and you do not think that I am capable of giving you power beyond imagining?”

“Why me? You had numerous devoted followers.” Miríel feels brave enough to prod him. Somewhere in the past minutes, her mind has dismissed fear. The absence of it is thrilling, and something she never experienced in life.

His raw eyes light, and Miríel again sees the spark of the familiar high priest glowing within them. “Of all the souls I could have picked from this ocean of death, you stood out, because you are so utterly inconsequential. Not bad enough that you were one of those swiftly killed and taken by the enemies, but not loved enough that you were saved. Killed by a wave. Perhaps it was utter chance, not even meant specifically for you, just a motion of the angry sea. They did not care about Miríel.”

Her hands are clenched into fists, but even with his charismatic glamour coating his speech, Sauron was right. She had never been seen as the legitimate ruling queen, or as a threat to her husband’s plots. Ar-Pharazôn had not needed her to produce a child, for it he had his way he would live forever, and he did not need her as a royal symbol, for he ruled harshly, using no defenses to cover up his brutalities.

Once she had been married, her title had been stripped of the ‘ruling’ and renamed, she had become a shadow in court, her voice not heard. Ar-Pharazôn had never tried to convert her, and no one had thought to take her west at the end, or to help her as she drowned in the water. Her prayers had meant nothing to the wrathful Valar.

“And if I refuse?”

“You will be dead, and judged along with your rebellious people. No great loss to myself, but quite detrimental to you.” Sauron’s permanently exposed teeth make him appear as a grinning skull, smiling or perhaps snarling.

Miríel’s mind clutches at her options, but unlike so many of her decisions in life, she sees the clear choice. She was not spared, despite all her secret obedience to the Valar, all her sacrifices, and cursing of her husband in secret prayers. At her end she had been going up to Meneltarma, the last holy place left, thinking that it would be safe, thinking that this show of faith would protect her. It had not. She had become just another limp corpse in the tide of bodies.

Miríel had seen good people, those not allied with Sauron die today, and for what? For not trying harder to stop their fellows from sailing? Must powerless ones take other’s blame? Now all of Númenor is gone, on account of the ambition of some, on account on not bowing before foreign gods who gave nothing, not even a hint of their presence to their faithful.

Though Sauron had asked for worship, he had given the promise of immortality to his followers in return, and now he holds power out to her, a chance to make her own justice and rule somewhere as Tar-Miríel. While she hates him for the many sorrows he wrought on her life, this is the closest offer she has ever had to freedom. Miríel may die in this new life, but at least she will die having left her mark upon this world, and if his claim of power beyond imagining is true, then even on its higher powers. Either she can choose judgment now, or glory and then judgement later.

Outside she sees what could be a body fleetingly tumbling by, propelled by the currents. Above the waves the destruction is not finished, and the turmoil rages on.

“I accept. Let it be done,” Miríel says, the first independent decision she can remember making in eons.

After they depart the temple, she imagines his magical protection receding, and the hungry water rushing into swallow the last dry piece of Númenor.

She acquires a mask in time, along with a mount, new lands, and new name Witchking, though she privately calls herself Tar-Miríel, the first queen of Agmar. Her anonymity is now a shield, and serves to inspire fear in her victims. No one knows what is behind the darkness of her sharply pointed helmet. Over the centuries, she pursues the Númenoreans who escaped, at Sauron’s bidding and her own will, wishing to spite the Valar who chose these people over her to spare.

When she deals death, she feels what the gods must have felt on that day, very far off in the mind of the living, but still fresh in hers: the weight of lives in one’s own hand, to destroy or spare. Tar-Miríel soars in the sky with her mighty beast, not weighed down by guilt of drowned by water, her power not diminished, even as Sauron locks himself away in a tower, a remnant of his former self, his might spread thin and tied to rings. She is more powerful than Ar-Pharazôn ever was, and she wishes that his soul was not held so tightly by the Valar, or she would find him and slay him again. She cannot, so she imagines his face on those she does kill instead, when their actual countenances seem too innocent to brutalize.

It is said that no man can kill her, and this proves true in the end. The figure standing before Tar-Miríel on the battlefield is slender and has long blonde hair like she herself had so long ago, and in her eyes the queen of Agmar sees the same wild desperation to achieve revenge that she felt standing in room of a drowned temple with a sorcerer. “I am no man!” shouts the other women, and Tar-Miríel almost laughs as she feels the sword plunge into her once dead body, killing it for good.

“Nor am I!” she wants to answer, pulling off her helm for the first time in centuries, revealing herface. But Tar-Miríel does not know what she looks like anymore, is she still even has a face behind this mask, and the world is passing swiftly away. Her last thought is that she hopes that the victory the Witchking’s death gives to the blonde women is great and glorious, and not ignored by men.


	23. This Sickness, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andreth is sick and Aegnor tries to help. They both repress their feelings with varying success.

 

[Featuring an amazing head canon by hello-from-valinor which you can and should read about ](https://verymaedhros.tumblr.com/post/171031676257/elven-biology-idea)

 

* * *

 

It was winter, bitterly cold, and Aegnor was out walking to see Andreth nonetheless.

They were in each other’s company almost every day, too much, some would say. Aegnor had heard the rumors about them-that they were having some sort of affair- but Andreth did not care about them “It is not me that is hurt by the rumors anyhow,” she said when Aegnor mentioned them to her, after bursting out laughing. “I have managed to get myself an elf for a lover. I am envied, but you, they think that you have sunk to the level of a human consort when you could have had one of your own people. Most of the speculation must be about you, and why you would pick me. Not for political alliances, or riches-”

“Maybe for your beauty and your spirit, so different from elves, but no less great,” Aegnor had replied, thinking that many things could be concealed in joking.

“That is ridiculous, but speaking of looks, maybe you have chosen me because you could not convince any elf woman to have you. Are you considered beautiful for an elf?”

Aegnor knew that he and his race held a great fascination for humans, and he wondered if Andreth thought like that. He wanted her to be, thought she had never done anything to relate such. Maybe she was simply good at hiding it, but Aegnor would not have minded if she found him good looking. Maybe that was vanity, but even so. “What is your opinion?” He asked.

“But that is why I said, ‘among your people.’” Andreth answered. “I could say that looking at you is like looking at the sun, that my body is on fire every time you look at me, but-,” she held up a finger at him, “That would not be the real standard. All elves seem fair to mortal eyes, but what about to more discerning ones?” Andreth could and would argue any point, and well, so Aegnor told her that their opinions would be varied, and that he had never previously given much thought to the matter. Previously, at least, he thought, returning to the present as he removed his hood and smoothed back his hair before knocking at Andreth’s door.

She answered, but after a much longer pause than normal. “You look-” Aegnor began upon seeing her, then trailed off. Terrible, came to mind, but that would be rude, and was not really true anyway. Andreth looked stunningly, disconcertingly pretty as always, but she also looked tired and pale, fragile. “Are you alright?” He amended.

“Oh? That bad?” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “It is nothing, I just have a cold. Come in.”

“You are ill?” Aegnor asked as he stepped inside.

“No, I mean, yes, but not seriously. It is sweet of you to ask though,” she said, shrugging.

Torn between her first statement- she thought he was sweet, and her second, she was ill, how horrible- Aegnor said, “But you will be fine, correct? Illnesses are often worse in the winter, are they not and-”

“ Aegnor, ” interrupted Andreth, stretching out his name. “I am completely fine. But if I do begin dying, you will be first to know.”

“Is there some- cure of some sort?” He knew battlefield medicine, cauterization, tourniquets, stitching skin, how to treat wounds that could affect elves, but not this, not how to help with illnesses. Not how to help Andreth. To be helpless in the face of her discomfort was infuriating.

“I wish that there was, but not really. Only rest and waiting for it to pass.” She paused, turning away from him to sneeze violently. “You and your perfect, never irritated sinuses!” She said without rancor.

“Well,” said Aegnor, thinking that she would be alright after all. “I wish you a quick recovery.” He reached out and patted her forearm as a gesture of comfort and good will, but her previously pale face flushed so violently that he took his hand away, not sure what he had done wrong, and hoping that he has not offended her.

“Oh please stay!” Said Andreth, and now it was she who reached out and clasped his hand. “I have not really gone out, because I did not want to spread this, but you, with your ironclad health! I want company, please?” Her fingers were hot, as they wrapped around his, maybe she had a fever, but they did not feel unpleasant.

“I will stay, if you will lie down and rest.”

“What is this? You are now giving me medical advice?”

“I know that rest helps with all healing. Now go and lie down, or I will leave you.” He only talked to Andreth this way. He had found that this was a mortal custom, to say sarcastic or rude things to each other when the two really were friends or had some romantic interest in each other. Not that they, or not that Andreth at least-

“Fine, I agree.” She went dramatically to her room and threw herself on the bed. The blankets were twisted like a nest, and she yanked one over herself saying, “There, done. My body may now heal itself, are you happy?”

“Thrilled.” It did not feel right to sit on the bed with her in it, but there were no other chairs in the room, so he sat on the floor, and luckily Andreth did not comment on this. “And what shall I talk about?”

“Anything, there must be something interesting in your thousands of years of experiences.”

“Hundreds only,” Aegnor corrected her, grinning as he so often did around Andreth. But she was right. He thought of Manwe and Varda, Finwë and Indis, Thingol and Melian. All lovers. These stories will not do. He was not going to sit in her bedroom, and talk about romances, even chaste ones.

“Tell me about Valinor,” said Andreth eventually, into his silence.

Valinor. It was hard to reconcile the sufferings he had seen in this world, with the bliss of that place. He had almost forgotten that it existed, even worlds apart, but he tried, providing Andreth with descriptions of it, and answering her questions. “And why leave?” Andreth asked, her voice turning serious. “Yes, I know the history, jewels and all, but but how? How could you leave a place like that for anything?”

After speaking about such length, he too wondered again. “It was not an easy decision. At the time, revenge was sweeter than comfort. I was very young and the talk of glory- so much to be gained- if I went.” And what had that passion gotten any of them in the end?

“To have lost all of that, never to return except in death, which is unnatural for your people. I cannot imagine how you must feel.” Andreth said, and Aegnor felt guilty, for he should be making her feel better, not the reverse.

“It is not as bad as all that,” he said. “My experience with these lands- these people, has not been so terrible.”

“Oh yes, my company is surely worth forsaking the Blessed Realm,” said Andreth, rolling her eyes at him.

Looking at the women lying on the bed, he thought of their friendship, and was inclined to agree with her. Not so terrible. The moment stretched on, and Andreth, expecting a response to a clearly joking comment, looked away awkwardly.

“Do you regret it? Leaving?” This was the first time that the question had been put to him, though Aegnor was sure that it had been wondered mentally and aloud behind closed door by many.

Sometimes, sometimes yes, so intently that the longing was physical, a gaping hole of loss in his chest. But had he remained, he would always wonder what if? What if he had gone. If Aegnor had not he would have been separated from many of his kin and what would Valinor be like now? That realm could not remain happy. It would be a faded blossom, with empty houses and whittled families, and Mandos full. “It seems that if I had stayed I would regret it, and if I could go back, absolved of treason, I would regret leaving this place,” he answered.

There was too much of his heart in both places for him to live completely happily. He has left too much of it here, in Middle-earth, and with her. He should not have let this happened. He should have been more careful.

“I see,” replied Andreth, her voice trailing off, as she began coughing. It sounded horrible to Aegnor, like her lungs were tearing themselves apart, but, “I am fine,” she said, clearing her throat, anticipating his forthcoming question. “It sounds worse that it is, really.”

Aegnor nodded, but to see her in pain of any sort, no matter how small still grieved him. Her illness worried him so much because it was a reminder of her mortality and all the weakness that she must bear that he did not have. He hated the thought that he could do nothing, or perhaps he was not so helpless. A new thought occurred to him.

The Firstborn did not get sick, either from illnesses carried through air or food, or infection in wounds. It had always been this way,but after their contact with humans, the elves wondered why this was so, and why only they enjoyed perfect health. Eru had created them so that their bodies warded off all diseases, was the prevailing thought.

But to go further than that, their healers asked: if human could spread illnesses to others, especially through close physical contact, could not elves do the same, but in reverse? Could this be why patients of elven physicians recovered at a higher rates than those treated by their fellow humans? As far fetched as it might sound, this theory did seem to work unfailingly in practice.

Not for everything of course, they could not stop life threatening illnesses, or a patient could be too far gone, and elven touch could not close wounds, or major problems such as that, but through some blessing of their bodies’ chemistry, elves could heal minor human ailments.

Though this ability was widely used by their healers, it kept quiet outside of the elves, because they did not wish to be idolized, or blamed when their gift could not overcome some malady.

Physical touch worked the most effectively, the more of it the better: to embrace the person gave more healing than to clasp their hand, and the same with kissing. This too was a reason to keep it as a secret, because given the widespread human fascination and attraction to elves, it would not be wise to publicise that elven touch had healing qualities as so many mortals already were so enamored of it for- other reasons.

But why should he not use it to help Andreth? She, as a scholar of all things elven lore would be interested, and surely she would not mind being healed, nor the manner in which he could bring it about. There was a flicker of attraction on her part, Aegnor was almost sure of it.

As Aegnor brought up the subject, it seemed painfully obvious to him how outlandish this idea could sound but Andreth seemed interested and sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest, and said, “Magical healing, is there anything that your race cannot do? You could sell that,” she continued. “And I daresay that you would have plenty of customers that did not even require healing but rather-“

“Yes, I am aware, which is why we do not tell others.”

“Still, you are passing up a fortune,” Andreth turned her face towards him and rested her head on top of her knees.

“So- would you like me to- I can, help you if wish,” he faltered, knowing that he did not offer only because he wanted to see her better, but because of his own feelings, tangled and confused.

“For no charge?” Said Andreth jesting again, seemingly not to pick up any duplicitousness, or maybe aware of it, and not minding a double purpose in partaking in this ‘magical healing,’ as she had put it.

“For free,” he returned, feeling increasingly nervous as she moved aside on the bed and looked at him expectantly. He sat, but Aegnor did not know exactly how to initiate things. While he had held the hands of patients and kissed their sleeping foreheads, to try to share this gift with Andreth felt awkward, because- because he was he was in love with her. There. He was loathe to admit it even to himself, but the fact remained, stubbornly existing, and lurking in all his interactions with her.

“So where must you kiss me on the forehead or…?” said Andreth, a curious patient inquiring about a procedure.

“On the mouth,” he said, looking down at her. They were closer now, she having moved towards him so their shoulders were touching. Trying to preserve his tone as that of a doctor, he added quickly, “If you would not mind, it would be more effective.”

Andreth nodded, did not hesitating but wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her level, kissing him hungrily, as if trying to pull health from his mouth. Aegnor responded, thinking that if she felt nothing for him, her actions would certainly differ. Her body, pressed against him, was hot, her skin overly warm, feverish, Aegnor thought again. She pulled away, much too soon, both for his liking, and for hers too it seemed. “One moment, my nose is too blocked to breathe out of properly,” she explained, out of air and after a moment moved towards him again.

His feelings were simply: love totally, but they were also complicated because… He moved one arm around her, his hand caressing her hair, and brushing the tip of her ear, which was round, not pointed. Because of that. Were she an elf, were he a human, it would be simple. They could wed. But as they were, mismatched races, there was so much between them.

This situation felt dangerously close to tipping out of hand, their hands, and lips and bodies against each other, and Aegnor broke it off, gently. Andreth looked almost disappointed, and he hasten to explain that it would be more than enough to heal her.

“I apologize,” said Andreth, looking pleased and not at all sorry. “It is just- this stupid cold, I have been ill for a while, and I wanted to make sure that whatever healing I received worked.”

“I did not mind,” Aegnor replied, realizing at the same time that she was flirting with him, and that his statement could be taken as flirting as well. He felt dizzy and felt his blood burn as if he too were ill.

“Should I feel different, because I do not,” Andreth said, disentangling herself, smoothing her hair, seemingly unaffected.

Aegnor tried to clear his head with moderate success, and replied that the process usually take several hours to work. She should sleep, he advised. It would help, and it was already dark outside. He had stayed over long.

She thanked him and he left. Outside the winter air chilled his face, not reaching his burning heart.

The next day Andreth would visit him, announcing that she had been completely cured, asking more questions about this ability, and again joking that for elves to sell healing kisses and embraces would keep them in riches for eternity. Aegnor would jest with her, while thinking that though her petty illness had been cured, his love for her was too great an infection, and could not be so done away with.

 


	24. This Hard Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emeldir leads her people. It is not always easy.

Another grave, a child this time.

Emeldir hates them, the dead. Their dying is a massive inconvenience. Did they not think, before gasping their last breath, of how much work they are causing? How hard it is to dig even a small grave?

They must be wrapped in blankets and so those were wasted. Emeldir would have stripped them naked, for the living have more need of clothes. But their loved ones would never allow that. “It is an affront to their dignity!” What dignity? They are dead already.

And when someone dies the group must stop, wasting precious time, and dig. Shovels are scarce. Farm implements are not something a person thinks to grab when fleeing their home. Although everyone among them has money, it is worthless now.

Instead they use swords, or sharpened sticks or hands to dig. Emeldir would not even bury the bodies if she had her way, but to refuse would cause a mutiny. This is foolish! She wants yell while plunging her sword into the earth. If they should be attacked again, their blunted weapons would not be much use. She tries to sharpen them or ordinary rocks, when she has time or energy, both of which are in short supply. At least she has a knife.

After a sizable hole is made, the corpse is lowered in, then the wife, husband, child, mother, father, daughter, son, or friend of the deceased either wails, or looks on silently, broken. She feels no grief anymore. She feels hunger and exhaustion, only base emotions now. All she wants is to be safe and fed, and safety is not here, and food is barely either.

“Anyone else?” Emeldir wants to say every time before they fill a grave in. “We could fit two more bodies, at least, in here. Who else wants to die today?” The dying do not usually take her up on the offer. They do not want to share their deaths, their graves, and they string themselves along, dying one by one.

Then it is time to refill the grave and this is the part most often done with hands, not a symbolic toss of one clot; she is on her knees sweeping her arms out, embracing the dirt, pushing it back into the hole from whence it came. They place rocks over the grave, to protect it from animals. Emeldir helps with all of the graves- there are so many of them- because she is one of the stronger of the group, and her hands blister and bleed, the brown mixing with red.

Her people die, too many of them, from hunger, disease, wounds, and despair. Emeldir’s hands are dirty too often. The weak are dying off. Nature weeding out the unnecessary. Nature is impartial, not listening to pleading. She will not die, neither will her son. She has a son. What will she feel if it was her boy in that grave? Nothing, she knows. Her feelings are frozen. They will only thaw when she has time for sentimentality, and then the tons of sorrow will crash over her. Something for her to look forward too, upon reaching Brethil.

Strange, that the life giving earth is brown, the color of dead plants. The earth should be vibrant green colored, not just the grass, but what is underneath too. She should eat something. She has not eaten in far too long. Her bones just out, the tent frames against the collapsing canopy of her skin. She feels light, and empty, like her head is floating.

She is prepared to eat the fallen, but it has not come to that yet. It astonishes her, that she is capable of such horrible thoughts, and she wonders if this is what lurks under the humanity of every person, the fanged animal instinct to survive. Do those walking behind her think the same thing?

Emeldir has lost everything, and now she only cares about her people’s safety and her own. If pressed, she did not know which she would put first, theirs or hers. These ragged people would say theirs, of course, they love her, but she did not know. Altruism is a luxury, a human thing. The hunger is not so bad if she does not think about it.

Emeldir walks at the front of the group, always, for she is their leader; her husband is dead. Emeldir, 'the Manhearted,’ someone adds after her name, trying to raise the spirits of their group. What a stupid name, she thinks. I am dragging the last of my people across the mountains, because my husband died and we were defeated, so there is not much else I can do. And this makes me like a man? Because I have one measure of courage to wave a sword about and to keep moving forward? Why should men, whom she has seen falter, die and desert along the way, be the ultimate standard for courage? She would much rather be Emeldir the Stronghearted, but people cannot ask for their titles. She walks on, wondering if she would still be called such if her starved mind leads her off a cliff and she dies.

She longs for oblivion, the final peace that she sees on the faces of the dead before they are wrapped in their blanket shrouds. She hates that they get to give up and she does not. If she dies she does not want her people to bury her. It would waste time, and effort, and they must go on. She wants to be left on the road. But they would insist on burying her anyway, and perhaps cutting an epitaph: Here lies Emeldir the Manhearted. Burial is foolish here. The living will abandon the graves, and the dead spirits’ do not remain there either.

Emeldir wants this journey to end, but she will not it give up unless she dies; she would welcome death if finds her.

On and on and on, and her hands are dirty.

 


	25. Accounts of Valor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Éowyn wishes that history was different.

Twelve year old Éowyn loves women.

Not all women in general. Not living women, especially not those who look askance at her when she hits their sons with her new metal (blunted metal true, but still shining in the sun), sword while training, not these, but ones whom she finds printed across the pages of history.

And though there are far too few of these, Éowyn makes a point to ask her teacher s about all of them. “Who was she, and she, and she? And why did she only get a few sentences here if she ruled the entire kingdom so long and for so well? And why did she not refuse the marriage? And why did she not have her usurping brother killed and…”

She loves these women, thrilled at each achievement.

Rohan had fighting women once, called shieldmaiden. “Can I be one?” she asks excitedly, wondering where they are now, for she has never seen one. And she had not known about them until now. Perhaps, they are a secret group, only appearing in battle.

“They were only formed due the extreme need of that time, and do not exist anymore” her tutor says.

“Why would they only be used in extreme need? They pushed back the invasion did they not? It says here, look-” she points to the page.

“Enough questions, Éowyn.”

“Well, who disbanded them?” She thinks. “Who made them turn in their swords and go home?”

Did they lay down their arms saying, “Thank you, we have had enough,”?

That could not have been what had happened. If they were so fierce, they would have found it hard to return to normal womanly life, once their spirits were awakened in battle. Éowyn herself knows that she would not give up her sword for anything and she has not even been in a real fight - not yet.

A shieldmaiden! She could have been one, had she been born earlier. These women galloped over the same rolling green plains that she does, and whenever she rides out alone, she scans the land around her, looking for any trace of these mysterious shieldmaidens long gone. Perhaps they are invisible, hidden, watching her progress and soon, as Éowyn improves in her training, they will come to her and take her away with them.

None of these women are named. They are blank, left entirely to her imagination and she can call them whatever she wants, putting on to them any physical features or traits of women around her that she admires. One can even be called Éowyn.

It is not just the women of Rohan that she idolizes. It is all of them as many as she can find it is Galadriel, and Melian, and Lúthien, although Éowyn wishes that the last’s story said more about her dancing and her magic then about her love for Beren. This women ensorcelled Morgoth with a dance and a song after all.

Even with Thuringwethil and Ungoliant, bad creatures, she knows, it still excites her to see women appear in history, even though they are doing terrible things.

It seems that there are far too few women on either side good or evil, and she wonders where the women have been through the centuries of war and struggle. At home , her mind answers her own question, although she does not like it. Éowyn vows that should darkness ever come upon Rohan, this will not be her, and her name will be written down in remembrance of deeds of valor followed by a long life, or swiftly by death. She does not care which, as long as as it is there in the pages at all.

If women are scarce, women with swords in their hands are almost non existent. Besides the now gone shieldmaidens, she finds records of of Haleth, long dead, a leader all by herself who was protected by a squadron of female bodyguards, and Emeldir who was chieftan of her people for a while.

Elf women, it seems, know how to fight but again, they are used only in emergency. Why must it be only in emergency? Why are half of the people- human or elf- only allowed to fight when times are most dire? Perhaps it is the histories that are lacking, for she knows who writes them down and it is not women.

If she could write history, she would write only of them and she would change the stories why they did not please her. For example, Morwen Eledhwen would not stay behind but would follow her husband Húrin out onto the battlefield. With her strength of will she would be a great commander, and they would take the day. Or perhaps Rían, her sister did not die from grief at the mound of the slain. Maybe Rían could be a very powerful witch, who had expended her soul after putting the spirits of the dead which lay there to rest.

Arethel, an elf woman that she reads about, was a great hunter and Éowyn pages through her story excitedly until the narrative goes awry and Arethel is lost in the woods, finally reemerging with an unwanted husband, a pale child, and then killed by a javelin in her shoulder. Why must such terrible things happen when Aredhel only wanted to ride freely? Nothing will bind me, neither men, nor chain, nor magic, and I will not be caught off guard by spears or by poison, she thinks.

Sometimes she pretends that the male characters in stories are women instead. This is quite easy for Éowyn to do, as many of the names in tales are foreign, and her mind does not automatically know whether they are male or female, so she will stubbornly choose the latter despite the fact that she is contradicting the text. Thus the story becomes vastly more interesting, if someone like her is doing the adventuring, the slaying, the saving.

Éowyn must live her own hero's tale, if there are none to read of.


	26. Lost Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to the Ent Wives.

While Treebeard had said that the Entwives where lost, this was not strictly true. For though the Entwives’ location was unknown to the Ents, the Entwives themselves knew exactly where they were and furthermore, they had no desire to be found.

The Entwives had become quite tired of being known as, ‘Ent wives,’ a name contingent only upon the existence of the Ents, and implying that the Entwives existed only to wed the Ents. Among themselves, the Entwives called themselves ‘Treewomen,’ and the Ents, ‘Treemen,’ which were infinitely better terms, as the shared stem, ‘tree,’ was much more egalitarian and described a basic characteristic of their species, not a description of their marital status.

Of course the Ents would have known that the Treewomen felt displeasure at being called Entwives, had they ever taken the time out of their incredibly hurried tree lives to discuss these things with their spouses, but such was not the way of the Ents and they regarded their wives quicker, more plentiful talk as frivolous and unnecessary, not knowing until it was too late that, had they engaged in some of it with the Treewomen, they perhaps would not have lost them entirely.

Because of the Treewomen’s annoyance at the other half of their species, and the fact that their roots grew more shallowly than their male counterparts, they picked themselves up and left to tend their gardens elsewhere.

Though their gardens were beautiful, and they were free of their husbands, the Treewomen became troubled as they observed the growing darkness over Middle-earth. They waited, and watched, and thought.

Even then, they would not gone if not for the call. Darkness was coming, yes, but they had nowhere to go, and the Treewomen decided to wait out the darkness, with branches bent against the wind, for trees were used to annoyances, and could ooze sap over slashes, or harden their bark, and they had already moved once. And they could not go tromping over all of Middle-earth here and there. The tree women did not wish to make a spectacle of themselves and to be watched in yet another journey. Besides, to begin moving when there was danger would have been against the nature of a tree even ones with shallowly growing roots. Plants draw in on themselves in times of peril, they do not flee.

But the call came, and they escaped, and it proved necessary in the end, for great destruction was brought to their lands in the coming war. Even if such events with Sauron and that particular war had not come to pass, Treewomen would not have regretted leaving, for they would have chosen their new homes over the safest Middle-earth.

The call that came was silent, it was in the wind, and in the water, it came from the deepest, oldest parts of Middle-earth, it spoke of the beginning of all trees, and after that the beginning of Ents and Entwives, and of other trees that had been like them, living and understanding, life and might giving to a shining country. These trees had not been green but- silver and gold. They were lost now, but remained ever in the mind of she who sang the song.

And she, the singer- well the Treewomen, would have come at her call no matter what she had sung of, because of who she was. She was the earth itself, she was the life giver, she was the water that the tree roots drank in, sustaining.

And she called to them, the Treewomen, and only them, for the Treemen had a great role to play in the coming days, or at least the coming days according to the Ents, though they were still yet far off in the reckoning of other peoples on Middle-earth.

So they went. There was no need for a counsel, for the Treewomen were all of the same mind, and one day they picked up, roots and all, and left. How they left, how they disappeared into the West without being seen by Entish or other, more evil eyes, was a mystery, but the Treewomen did not care who saw them, or what they thought, for at this point so filled with longing, they would have paraded in front of all the eyes in Middle-earth to reach Yavanna.

They walked. It was a pleasant journey, although only half remembered, as it seem to pass in a dreamlike state, like walking through a cave, towards light at the end.

The Treewomen came in their journeying to the western sea but this provided no great obstacle for them, for they simply walked into the sea, their roots digging into the sand, the salt water lapping against their trunks. They had no fear of the sea. When the waves became too deep for even the tallest among them, they lifted up their roots and lay horizontal in the water, and let themselves be pulled forwards, against the waves, where they floated like felled logs.

It could have been a week, or even a year that they traveled on as such, for the Entish reckoning of time had never been perfectly accurate and previously, none of their people had gone too near to the ocean, on account of its salt water being poor nourishment for their roots.

On they went until the water became shallow again, and then they alighted on the beaches of Valinor. Here no Ent had gone before, but it seemed to the Treewomen familiar as if seen often in a perfect dream, half remembered. They shook their wheat hair free of the clinging salt spray, and began trekking up the sand, towards the figure who stood at the beginning of the treeline who, appeared as a Treewomen, more beautiful than the famed Fimbrethil, and as a woman draped in green and life.

And of the Treewoman’s lives after in the care of Yavanna Kementári, nothing much is known, only that that they lived happily, free forever of the term, ‘Entwives.’

 


	27. Silver and Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Berúthiel goes south, home.

Berúthiel was alone finally. Here in this tiny, floating boat, she had achieved utter solitude. All her life she had fled from others, shirking their company. When she was first sent from Umbar, as a political bride, a fourteen year old peace offering to be married at twenty, no different from a piece of land or a piece of meat in a primitive tribe, she would sit for hours at a time, closed in on herself, not able to move, feeling terrified as the time ran past her, but unable to stop losing it. Human contact was hard at times like that, with her mind feeling clenched, screaming over the words that people spoke. Berúthiel eventually got used to the loneliness that came with living in a place where everyone regarded you as a spy, and with a husband in a loveless marriage. Of course she was a spy, later, after she realized that these people would never accept her, but when she came north she had been a scared girl in a silver dress worn with travel. Now she was a woman in a black dress and a boat, out to sea, banished, going home.

She had never been sure where the cats came from, living as she had in the southern regions, where things were often bizarre or off slightly, so steeped in dark magic was the place. The the animals appeared in her rooms one day, one white, eight black, and she took them in. They did not speak in human tongue, and when she read their memories- for she was as good a witch as any- they appeared to be the minds of ordinary cats, but they seemed to have a sense of what she would want to see, and they understood enough of her commands when she spoke to them to make her wonder if they were not something more than ordinary felines. She brought them north with her and was allowed to keep them because the Númenoreans regarded them as ordinary cats, in the beginning at least.

They did not have names, for Berúthiel thought that they must have their own private ones, and if they did not want her to know them, that was their business. She could relate, for her name was not really Berúthiel; that was only the translated version in someone else's language. However she had no trouble telling them apart, though they may look very much the same, with their smooth fur, all white or black, and their green eyes, striking in their small faces.

In Númenor, Bethúriel had not been a ruling queen, as it was termed to the north by their 'pure,' cousins. Rather she had been the wife of the king and that was all. While her group of people was called black, evil, traitors to the gods of the elves, she often reflected that at least they were not plagued by laws against people because of their sex. While oppression did exist in her home realm, it was applied equally to all and not only to women. The concept of justice was merely restricted wholesale, and the unfair laws were blanket ones, not exceptions for female first born children. The southern people worshiped Melkor, a male, and Darkness, a female. An equal balance, and equal partnership. Not so in Númenor, where half of their spirits were women, but acknowledging them as queens did not spill over into everyday lives of these men. There were ordinary women, who were lessers, and Varda, Nienna, and Uinen, others; she did not pay attention in their worship, were holy beings.

That was the crime of the Eru, trying to remove Melkor from the first song. Had he not deviated from the mean, how would the other spirits have known what the 'good' was? If things were indeed evil, then they acted as a form which good people could shun. If there was no evil, then good would have nothing to differentiate itself from, and then it could not be truly good, since it would be the only thing in existence. Berúthiel thought a lot, when she could not speak to others.

In Umbar power could be shared between two people, but not here apparently. "Duumviracy," she had said to her newly met betrothed, trying to explain her homeland's system of ruling. But the word for having two leaders was not in the northern dialect which diverged from hers because of the people's time apart. Her country's dual rulers bound themselves to each other by magic, so that any physical harm done by one to the other was done to self as well, thus preventing assassinations. Berúthiel could have been one of them, but she was sent off to Gondor for a political alliance that she could see was a sham, even from the beginning.

Customs such as these and a desire to worship a different god, made them evil in the eyes of the northern kings. They were named Black Númenoreans, and their northern cousins would be white, though she was sure that they never called themselves that. Light and dark, so simple. Easily divided. The only colors that pleased Bethúriel. There was no room for vacillation. Either there was color or there was not. She only wore black or silver, not only to set herself apart from the Gondorians, but because they were the main colors of magic, black charcoal lines on the floor, that must be erased before the maids came the next morning, silver stones for protection. Red was the other color of sorcery, red blood dripping off her fingers, cut from her fingers, cut herself to finish a spell. But Berúthiel did not wear red because red was in her veins, charmed and witchy. Black and silver suited her coloring: white skin and black hair, another thing to mark her among these people, whose skins were colors from dark brown to freckled white.

Her cats did not terrorize the men of Gondor, anymore than anyone terrorized her. They all looked at her suspiciously, with their huge eyes, and her cats did the same back.

The cats were her only refuge in this land of too many colors and too many gods. Her marriage was loveless, and she had no children, and no friends. She wrote letters, back home, thinking that they might be read, knowing that if a Númenorian women were in the same situation hers certainly would be. "Mama, Mama, I miss you so much," she wrote, in their own dialect, making her writing as messy as possible to obscure it from prying eyes. "Let me come home, please."

Her mother responded that she must stay. It was the agreement between their people. "I am one of the main party in this agreement," Berúthiel wrote back, "and I did not consent." But that was the same argument she had before she was told to go. That was early on in her new life, and she tried to think of other things to write.

She avoided her husband, Tarannon Falastur as much as possible. He was not a bad youth, but they hated each other on principle of their backgrounds, and they lived apart even after their wedding. They did not touch, no one made her have children, because no one wanted to have a half evil child on the throne, and Berúthiel was a virgin even to this day, because she would never lie with anyone in this white city.

Shs had killed very few people in Gondor, for those spells were very difficult. When performing one, Berúthiel had fallen unconscious for days and nearly died. At least she had an alibi when the woman was found dead. Mostly Berúthiel used her magic to see her homeland, and when that became too painful, she would watch the places where her cats were not allowed. It was this way that she learned of her husband's plans to banish her ahead of time. Then she had killed her final person, before she was sent off. He was a nephew, intended for the crown. With him out of the way the throne could, maybe pass to his younger sister. But she knew these people, so perhaps not.

They will destroy her statues, silver twisted things, that she had added to the regimented gardens in Osgiliath. These were not magic, she simply enjoyed their making. At least women were allowed to sculpt here. Once the molten metal splattered over her hands as she poured into molds and all she could think was how nice the silver looked on her skin, even as it burned her. Berúthiel treated the wounds herself, not wanting anyone else to see her injury.

And now she had been banished, by her husband who had power over even the queen. If one ruler in her home had tried to banish the other...It was unheard of. She could not even imagine it. It could not happen. It just could not. Berúthiel had been given a small boat, with no sail or paddle, and set adrift on the waves. This was called justice, letting her die of starvation, or thirst, or torn apart by sharks if the vessel capsized. She had been accused to no crime, but simply that she could no longer be queen. "I am not your queen," Berúthiel responded. "And I never was."

This Black Númenorean was out at sea, but she was going home. Her hatred of the sea was another thing that set her apart from these people. The water was something that could not be reckoned with or controlled by magic, and in Gondor, she was consumed by frequent dreams of the sea overwhelming everything in this kingdom. Erendis, another foreign queen that Berúthiel found in their history books had hated the sea too, and she had not been murdered for it, but then Erendis had not been from Umbar either.

Berúthiel had been put out to sea, not even killed, they were too weak to do that. Had a spy been found in her realm she would have put them to death, swiftly, in front of all the people, but here she was put in a small boat, and set a drift. He head by drowning or starvation or thirst could be removed from these people, and they could keep their hands clean.

Berúthiel was not worried about her lack of supplies. She was trained in magic, 'black magic,' some would say, and her separate quarters and solitude had prove advantageous in developing her skills. She had been allowed to bring anything with her, save her cats, but the power resided in her blood, and even now the boat was moving swiftly, without wind or waves, in a direction that she had directed it. The sea parted sullenly at the boats coming, but it did not slow her progress. When she was far enough away that no one would recognize her, she would disembark, and travel south, south to home.

She had seen what was to come, and now those dreams of a drowning sea made sense. Telling the future took much blood and the criss crossing lines on her arms were still healing but it had been worth it. These people would perish, but hers would not.

Berúthiel did not know what she would do back in her land. She had been sent away because of their customs, Númenor gots a offering of a young girl, and the Black Númenoreans got an assurance of peace, but Berúthiel had not chosen to be banished, and because of her cat spies, she knew that their peace was tenuous at best. She did not have many people to see back at home. Her parents were dead, because their people had shorter life spans, and no solution had yet been found. But Berúthiel wanted to be far away from the sea and from gaudy colors, and she still had some living friends. This astounded those in Númenor who could not believe that loving relationships could exist among her people.

She need not even go back to the royal household, she could live simply anywhere, alone as a witch, with her animals. The wind from the sea blew in her face, but Berúthiel did not mind, for her cats where with her, she was alone, and soon she would be home.

 

 


	28. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling in Valinor can be cold. Fëanor and Nerdanel have a solution. Well she does at least. Feanor's pleasantly surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter one, because it arguably has no plot, only fluff. I do not care that Valinor does not have winter, Tolkien can meet me behind the chippy if he wants to argue about it, honestly. Thanks to quinngrey from helping.

"Fëanor," came Nerdanel's voice through his sleep. It was the in the middle of the night, and they had journeyed far that day. "I am freezing, do we have extra blankets?" She said, poking him in the back with her foot. Fëanor was still half asleep, and while trying to recall, he heard her moving about their camp, and going through packs. There were none that he knew of, besides the ones he had layered over himself

"None!" Came Nerdanel's voice. "This will not do." There was more movement. She had pulled her bedroll next to his, lifting one side of his blankets, and lied herself next to him. Directly next to him. "Share your covers with me, as I am close to freezing," she said, nudging him.

 _This was new_ , Fëanor thought, very awake now. They had been together, or, well something, for a bit now. On one memorable occasion Nerdanel had cornered him in the forge's supply closet, shutting the door and briefly but enthusiastically kissing him, saying that she had been bored, unhappy with her work that day, and thought that he would enjoy it; but other than that their relationship had remained mostly the same.

It was ironic, all the hours they had spent together before, Fëanor drowning in assumed unrequited love, and now that they were something more, a million things seemed to conspire to keep them apart. They had found almost no chances to be privately together.

If they had been journeying, they would have had more time alone, but they went forth less in winter because of the cold and the snow. This sojourn was an exception- Nerdanel had just returned from months studying glass making in Alqualondë, during which Fëanor had missed her very much, thinking that Alqualondë could fall into the sea for all he cared, and she could have learnt glass blowing here if she wanted to so much. Upon her return, he had suggested that they go out somewhere, no planned destination, just wandering, and Nerdanel had accepted so eagerly that he regretted not doing it sooner, cursing himself for being so tentative- he knew now that she liked him after all, why still be such a coward?

Now here she was, maybe because of him, maybe because he had taken most of their blankets. Whatever the reason, Fëanor was determined to enjoy this, and he moved to accommodate her next to him. "Feel how cold I am," Nerdanel said, leaning forward to kiss him for expository purposes. Her mouth was indeed freezing against his, but not for long. "Now I remember why we do not often journey in winter time."

"It is not so bad," he started.

"It is not so bad for you because you have all the blankets! This is where they all went!" She replied, gesturing to his covers, and elbowing him, although perhaps less violently than she would have several months ago, an indication that their relationship had changed.

"If you let me finish, I was going to say that the company is not so bad," Fëanor added, and then realized that the remark was not as clever as he had thought, and so hastily added, "I meant you, your company."

"I think your company is excellent too," Nerdanel said. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him again. _Definitely changed,_ Fëanor thought, pushing himself up on one arm to kiss her more deeply, _and for the better._ At length Nerdanel said, "You know, not that I am complaining, but you are being incredibly distracting to me, when I only came over here to preserve myself from hypothermia, and to sleep, not for such carnality." Though it was too shadowy to see for sure, she sounded as if she was smiling.

 _Flirting,_ Feanor thought, in a rush of terror and excitement. Well, he could do that too. "Distracting am I?" He said, seizing her words and the opportunity. "Am...I...distracting you?" He punctuated his words by kissing her neck, moving down from her jawline and to her collarbone. He had never done anything of this sort before, but could only judge by the facts that Nerdanel moved herself closer to him and pushed her hair off her neck, that he was doing alright. Feanor felt her arch her body against him, and could have sworn that he heard her giggle, a distinctly un-Nerdanel thing to do, but she sounded pleased.

He felt very hot and briefly did not see the need for blankets, or clothes, or anything remotely linked to virtue, but restrained himself; though he did not agree with reason, reason still stubbornly existed, telling him that the king's son could not wed in the vulgar manner before an engagement was even announced, and other annoying reasons relating to protocol. Thus he left off, his mouth having traveled across her collarbones and to her opposite shoulder. Fëanor moved away from her slightly, trying to do so in a way that conveyed that he did not want to, but propriety, and things of that sort dictated it and so forth. Nerdanel seemed to understand and they contented themselves with laying arms about each other, sharing body heat and affection, if not everything.

"Fëanor," said Nerdanel, after time had past and he thought she was asleep. Her drowsy voice saying his name was so pleasant to hear that he did not answer, prompting her to call him again.

"Yes?"

"Although it was very wicked of you to take all the blankets, in the future I would like to continue such a sleeping arrangement on our journeys." His heart leapt into his throat; he too had wanted to suggest such a thing, but how nice that she had been the first to suggest it.

Fëanor almost answered that when they were married there would enough blankets in the palace for both of them, but thought better of it- they were only recently together and he did not want to alarm her by too quickly revealing the depth of his feelings, so he said, "If it pleases you," and soon slipped into Este's realm, with Nerdanel at his side.

Laurelin's light found them still curled up together, in a cocoon of blankets and shared warmth, keeping away the cold. The new, golden light of day illuminated Nerdanel's face: her flaming hair matching her pale eyelashes, and her fair skin dotted with an abundance of freckles- _like tiny stars in reverse,_ Feanor had thought, the first time he saw her. As if sensing his gaze, Nerdanel woke, and peered up at him. Fëanor tried to arrange his face into something other than the besotted wonderment it currently wore. He was unsure if it worked, but Nerdanel seemed not to mind, murmuring, "Good morning," before closing her eyes again, and snuggling closer to him, evidently seeing no reason to move. There was still time before full light, and he would be content to stay here with her, in the peaceful pre dawn forever.

 


	29. A Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offer, an answer, and what it means for both of them.

People have told Nerdanel that her statues were sometimes seen as their actual subjects, whether elf, plant, or animal. She hoped that it would be the same with this one, but at present, she felt that it would be lucky to be recognized for the sleeping cat that it was supposed to be, much less mistaken for a real creature.

Nerdanel felt both despair, and fine marble dust settle on her as she set down her chisel. Someone opened the forge door behind her, and wished too late that she could cover her work. She hated showing her unfinished or imperfect crafts to anyone. But it was only Fëanor, and she pushed back her chair, comfortable with him viewing her mistakes as she did his- although there were not many on his part. Fëanor was very talented, the greatest smith since Aulë, some said.

Today he was nicely dressed, too well for the forge, Nerdanel noted as he looked at her little sculpture. At least he recognized it as a cat, even if his telling her that it was a perfect capture of feline grace was, of course, false.

“Why are you so fancily dressed today?” She asked. Gracious, even his jet black hair was braided more intricately than she ever did her own.

“Why are you so beautiful today?” Fëanor, countered. “I just came to see you.”

Nerdanel, covered in the detritus of sculpting for hours, ignored the first part of his remark, though it pleased her. Instead she squinted at Fëanor, wondering what kind of answer to her question that was. Suspicious. He must be up to something, but she did not mind being pulled away from her work.

“Nerdanel, I have one of my works to show you.” He opened one hand to reveal a small piece of jewelry, a ring. It was silver, and intricately crafted, thin silver bands twining around each other, to created an unbroken circle of precious metal. It was not polished to a highly reflective sheen as it was current fashion in metal working. Rather, it had a brushed look to it. It lent the ring a strong and unique look that she loved.

“Whom is it for?” She and Fëanor both helped her father out with commissions on occasion, and she wondered which lucky youth or maiden would receive such a beautiful gift from their beloved.

“It is yours, if you will accept it,” he said.

“But it is a betrothal ring, why would I-” her speech broke off, and her head spun.

Fëanor’s hand not holding the ring wrapped around hers, his eyes meeting her shocked ones. “Nerdanel, I know that we are still very young, and yet, I love you, and if you feel as strongly as I do, then why should we not spend forever together?” He began to say more, his proposal not yet finished, and she was sure, very well thought out. But Fëanor, her darling Fëanor seemed so nervous, and he must be in agony, even as he spoke, waiting on her response, that she hastened to give it.

Nerdanel threw her arms around him, her voice filled with joy as she said, “Yes! Yes, a thousand times yes.” She knew that they were young, barely adults, she knew that accepting a proposal from the king’s son meant incredible change to her life, that-so many things. She did not care. She was utterly in love. Nerdanel had always been wise, and she did not doubt that this decision was the right one. She knew that many would question her as the princes’ spouse, being neither noble, nor found beautiful, but disregarding all these things, she offered her hand to receive the ring and life he offered her. It fit her finger perfectly. He knew the size of her hands well.

“You know that you will be a queen now,” said Fëanor, as if the thought was just now occurring to him.

“A small price to pay,” she replied.Indeed, Nerdanel often forget that Fëanor was royalty, that he had titles more than her friend, and recently, beloved. But she had thought of the responsibilities that would come with being queen, and this alone had held Nerdanel back from proposing to him. His choice of spouse could not be only for himself, but for all the Noldor. She had hoped, of course that he would think that she was worthy and ask her, and now- he had.

“I warn you: most of it is comprised of very dull ceremonies.”

“If you must suffer through them as well, I shall not mind.” She would not be discomfited by anything, not even entering the upper class with its unknown rules, not if he was with her.

“Even a wedding takes an eternity to arrange. First there must be the betrothal ceremonies, one public, one private. There are rehearsals for both of course, and a host of parties in between. Then comes-“

“Well, we must elope.”

“No, we must have a grand wedding, and you will have to wear a dress,” Fëanor told her seriously.

“Then I am inviting your Vanyar kin, all of them,” she replied, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Unacceptable, I revoke my proposal.” Fëanor seized her around the waist, and twirled her around, in a circle, her feet leaving the ground as if she were a child.

“Too bad, I already accepted. It is irrevocable.” They were behaving idiotically, but she did care. She was engaged, Nerdanel thought, looking at the new piece of jewelry on her hand. Engaged!

“This news will be quite a surprise to our parents,” Fëanor said to her.

“Not my mother and father, for I told them about us months ago,” Nerdanel said.

“What!” He nearly fell off the bench they were sitting on.

“Yes, and should I not have?” Fëanor made no secret of the fact that he disliked his step mother, and that his relationship with his father had been distant ever since Finwë’s remarriage. He was as disconnected from them as a person living under the same roof could be. This grieved her, but Nerdanel respected Fëanor’s decision not to reveal their relationship. She knew that this was not born of his being ashamed of her, and did not mind so much, for she did not wish to deal with the public’s attention or chaperones that it would bring- only to wander the land, and speak with Fëanor freely.

But with her own parents she had always been very open, and speaking about her and Feanor was no different. Save for revealing the many times she had climbed out of her window during Telperion’s hours to meet Feanor, Nerdanel had told them everything soon after she and Fëanor became involved.

“And what did they say?” Fëanor asked. What a question- as if they would have disapproved of him!

“Only that you were a nice youth. Oh, and my father that he was glad things were finally all out in the open, for if you kept staring at me when we were supposed to be working, you would end up injuring yourself severely.”

“I never did such a thing,” her intended replied, in a dignified manner.

“I would not have minded if you did.” As they spoke, Nerdanel’s fingers twisted her ring around her finger, feeling a thrill with each circle it made. Marriage, to join her soul to another’s forever- and not just any soul, but one that burned as brightly as Fëanor’s did. To be as close to his mind as she was to her own, and to never, never be parted from him. What an enormous thing to have agreed to. She could not even properly imagine what this next stage of her life would be like, but she did not need her second sight to tell her that their life together would be a happy one, for she felt it in her heart as their hands reached for each other at the same moment, intertwining as their bodies and souls would.

“I love you,” Nerdanel said suddenly, into their peaceful silence. “Truly,” she added. She was not as forthcoming with this phrase as Fëanor, who used it so often that she would have doubted his sincerity if he had been anyone else. “I believe what you told me about court rules, and yet our wedding day cannot come soon enough.”

Since they were going to be married, Nerdanel would have to get used to saying such openly romantic and blatantly mushy things, but for now she lightened the mood by adding, “now leave me, I have your betrothal ring to forge.”


	30. To Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The dead call to Rían and she answers them, not wholly willingly, like a parent, roused in the night by the cries of her child, knowing that, should she ignore it, the consequences will be much worse." How she really died.

The dead call to Rían and she answers them, not wholly willingly, like a parent, roused in the night by the cries of her child, knowing that, should she ignore it, the consequences will be much worse.

It has always been like this, with her and death. The first time one of them spoke to her was when she was newly arrived in Hithlum. A great flood of rains had come that spring and washes away great sections of earth. Rían was out in a meadow, stepping through the mud, when she saw the skull. It was old, not pure white, but with a yellow cast, covered in dried mud, half hidden but wholly recognizable.

Your assistance, please, it said although it should not have been able to speak with no windpipe. I wish to be covered again.

Rían screamed and ran away, across the field which she was not supposed to be exploring anyway. Back home, the voice left her alone, until nightfall when it began again. It is only the top of my head, please why will you not help? Imagine if your skinny little body was dead and all exposed like such?

She let the voice continue without talking to it, not knowing what speaking back to it will do. Finally she climbed out of her window and found herself on her knees in the dark field, piling clods of dirt on top of the skull. The voice ceased after that, not even a polite thank you. Soon after a late frost hardened the ground, strengthening Rían’s burial. As she climbed back into her window, Rían found her sister awake. Morwen, fourteen to Rían’s seven, easily pulled the whole story out of her. She was not at all frightened. “Some people have strange abilities, the elves are said to be able to speak to animals- why shouldn’t you be able to speak to the dead?”

Why not? thought Rían, though with less conviction than Morwen had said it.

When she did hear from them again, she tried to remember that they had been people too, not demons or orcs. Mostly they were lonely and wanted someone to know their achievements or only names. It was always people, not elves, or dwarves, or dead animals.

All the deceased do not speak to her, and that is good, or she will be overwhelmed. There seems to be no rules for who talks to her, or why. Haudh-en-Nirnaeth is far away, so it is not determined by proximity.

On occasion there are requests: flowers, or wine poured over graves. To be marked. To be remembered. To be seen. How many forgotten dead are there?

Not all their requests are benign, and not all the dead are easily consolable. Once a woman died suddenly, some unexpected internal bleeding. She had not been ill, though she had not been on good terms with her husband. Their fights were not so great that he would have killed her, so popular opinion ran. True indeed, for the dead woman wasted no time revealing to Rían that she had been attempting to poison her husband whom she hated, more than she let on in public, apparently. But she had mixed up their glasses and drunk the tasteless poison herself. Now she wanted him dead by another’s hand.

Rían would not, and thus learned about silencing a soul. There is much power in old books, if people troubled to read them. She did not know where the woman’s soul goes after she cleans the chalk from her kitchen table, if it has been banished or only silenced. Gone, she hopes, wherever souls go when they go quiet.

This came in handy when an infant died by drowning. The child was too young to know how to speak, and cried unendingly in her mind.

So many dead. The inhabitants of Hithlum know of the results of the battle from messengers, and Morwen’s knowledge of events, and from the host of shrieking souls that besiege Rían as they have for days. She tries to listen for Húrin or Huor’s voices among them, but they are too small to pick out amongst the crowd. Rían’s husband is dead, this they know for certain. There were witnesses to his bravery as he fell. She does not care. Rían misses him, and she will go to Haudh-en-Nirnaeth and set him and the other dead warriors right. She has never dealt with so many at once.

Of Húrin, they have had no word. Morwen says that he still lives, and Morwen is not one to be affected by sentimental hope. “Why must you go?” Her sister asks. “If you do not know if his soul is one crying out to you?” They have had this discussion already. Morwen worries for her sister’s safety. To her, Rían seems weak, always half out of this world, the younger, gentler girl that she protected growing up.

“I do not only go for him. Others are in need.” But Morwen does not understand compassion for many, for those unknown. “If it was my soul, I would wish for someone to help me. I am going. They will not be quiet until I do.” This her sister can understand. Peace anywhere is to be sought after. Rían embraces her, feeling the thin frame, even as Morwen’s stomach expands with child. She is far too thin. They all are. One crisis at a time.

I am coming, she says to the dead while on the road, but they are not omnipresent- cannot see her walking towards them. She could be lying, so their intentions continue, as she journeys under the gray sky. Alone.

Battlefields are always left deserted. The victor may build upon other conquered lands, and both sides may stash their dead in that earth, but they are not a place to be returned to. Once they have been used, scored with trenches, scorched with fire, studded with swords, it becomes set apart. Infected. This place would have been abandoned, even without the cairn of bodies. Both from the stench and the clamor of insistent voices that arises as she comes into view, Rían nearly faints. It is bad. It is so much worse than she could have imagined.

“A pile of corpses,” people said, but this sentence lacks any meaning next to what she sees. It is huge, more tall than wide, and neatly done too. The bodies are stacked in layers, one with their heads facing towards, the next layer with their heads facing away. It does not lean to the side, but rises in a straight column, although some of the bodies are already turning soft. There are flies and birds of prey cavorting around the thing. She will not get closer. There is no need for her purposes.

It must be midday, now and the sun is out more than it has been for several days. Some would expect her to wait for night fall, but Rían knows her powers do not wax and wane with the light. They are a part of her, and have always been.

“And what if Tuor asks after you?” Morwen had said before Rían left. Her son is a good boy, so cheerful despite being born into such circumstances.

“Tell him that I am helping the survivors of the battle,” Rían replied. In a way is is true. These souls had survived the destruction of their bodies. Many surely regretted dying, but what of those who had gone into battle, wishing for death and had died- gloriously, or ingloriously not, in the end it does not matter- and found themselves still unable to break free of the prison of their sentience? It must be worse than any physical wound. The noise as she prepares does not let up, or become easier to listen to. They do not speak with the same words or cadence and thus produce a sound that changes constantly and cannot be ignored.

But soon it will be over. Soon they will sleep.

“For Quieting,” the title in the book Rían had found after the poison woman had spoken to her. Its language had been arcane, its meanings hidden in twisting sentences. Every line of instruction was like a riddle. Perhaps this was, for the best, for the best part of the book was unreadable due to a black stain, like ash, covering all the pages after one bearing the words, “For Reanimating Corpses,” But this spell has worked so far, and it is not dangerous.

The beginning is simple, gentle. She sings, but not with words, with sounds that come forth from the center of her being. The dead are quiet now, but the quiet of someone in an argument waiting until their opponent concludes to again state their case. Rían pauses in her singing. This is the part where she must light the candles she brought with her. Before she can complete this task, the flames leap into existence on their own. Very tall for a moment, and then they settle down. She has never seen this before- but what could it mean? They are lit now, and she must concentrate on drawing straight chalk lines.

Is Huor watching her? Did he ever guess that his wife’s powers- that she had told him about but doubted he ever set much store in- would be used to help him. She kneels, her fingers gripping the edge of the rock, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the foolishness of violence, or death. Why must they fight such evils Why must it exist in the first place? She and Morwen should have their husbands back and there would be joy with Morwen’s baby on the way. But instead, she is on a battlefield filled with corpses, and Morwen is sad, and Hithlum is starving.

The spell calls for singing again. It is almost ended. She does. There is compassion her voice, but also a command. Get all the way gone. Away, away, and her vision seems darker at the edges, though the sky does not seem affected. At the end, she is supposed to extinguish the candles. This represents, Rian guesses, life moving on without the dead. A candle is lit in morning and burns out. Grief lessens. Rian breathes on them all at once, waiting for the smoke wisps, and then final silence. The candles do not go out. They do not even waver, as though protected from her breath. She sticks her fingers into the flames, pinching them, but though she burns her hand, they remain. Rían tries again and again, tears from pain, and frustration in her eyes.

In a moment of clear rage, she hates them- the dead. All of them: The skeleton in the field for frightening her, the poison woman, those who wanted remembrance, these dead who pulled her out here to see such a gruesome sight. She hates the voices for the constant reminder that they are: remember, you must die. She does not want to remember, she wants to pretend like her life and happiness are important in the end. The dead picked her because she is compassionate. She wanted to help, to heal what should never have concerned her. Morwen would have broken and burnt the skeleton in the field to ashes with a second thought. She was picked, not because she was special, but because she was soft. She need not be so anymore.

Taking one breath, not too deep, for her lungs feel weak and loose. Rían breathes on the candles again. Get gone. They go out. Something stops within her. Her heart.

Too late, Rían realizes, her mistake. She has slammed the door behind the dead, not realizing which side of the threshold she was on. They have pulled her along with them, or she want under her own power- too much spent on her life going like sand through her fingers. Another body at Haudh-en-Nirnaeth. More food for insects, birds, and wolves. No one will know why she died. Morwen may guess. Rían will leave that up to chance. She will not trouble another child, walking through this place hundreds of years hence one fine spring morning.

Away, away, and her spirit goes.

 


	31. To the East I Go Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Behave or the Easterlings will get you,” is a common enough saying in the west. No equivalent of this saying exists in the east, for the Easterlings have never found it necessary or kind to threaten their children with kidnaping and violence to get them to behave." An eastern woman's thoughts on Gondor.

“Behave or the Easterlings will get you,” is a common enough saying in the west. No equivalent of this saying exists in the east, for the Easterlings have never found it necessary to threaten their children with kidnaping and violence to get them to behave.

The Red Book is the chief account of the War of the Ring for those west, as well as those even in other worlds, but neither Frodo nor any of his companions have ever had close dealings with the Easterlings, and thus Lelia and her people’s account of how things had transpired is quite different.

Easterlings is such a broad word, and for the Gondorians in the west, it covers all the peoples east of Mordor: the Boat People who live near the sea of Rhun, the fierce Balcholoth, those who lived on the flat plains with their horses and falcons, those farther south who ekk out a living with the dust and dunes as their constant companions, her tribe that is descended from the long ago Wainriders, and multitude of other peoples. All of these become Easterlings. All the peoples are all the same to them.

Sometimes this term is applied to men not from the east who were enemies of Gondor. Easterling does not just mean ‘a person from the east,’ but automatically an enemy. How can they expect peace to be created when to the west ‘swarthy,’ skin and the very word that refers to their people means evil?

This group of former enemies is here for the coronation of Gondor’s new king. A show of goodwill. It was not so long ago that they have taken up arms against these pale men- and lost. Gondor had been lenient in part, because of the Easterling’s surrender immediately after. It was dishonorable, to give up some said but what what was? To die for an obviously lost cause? Her people had kept their lives.

Lelia had accepted this invitation to get away from the ruin of her homeland for a time. As a distraction, to distance herself from the arduous work of rebuilding, hoping that when she returned there would be some semblance of the land before, excavated from the ashes. They lived close to Mordor, on the other side of it to the east, and Sauron’s affairs had not blessed their land. The others with her must feel this way too, though they had not discussed it openly. At least it was not from some great desire for friendship with Gondor.

As they ride west across an open plain, great white city rises before them, the same they have been seeing for days, but not this close. Lelia sees that the stones of the outer wall are not perfectly white, but stained yellow or brown in some places. It is easily seen, but easily dirtied.

Their guide, a young man, with skin so pale that Lelia does not know how he can stand the sun, begins speaking about the city excitedly. He speaks her people’s language- though not well. It is necessary for they all speak Westron, and more well than he speaks theirs. But throughout this journey, he has insisted on using their native tongue, even when his meaning is nearly lost.

No one was allowed to bring weapons, but their traditional clothes- long layers wrapped about the body and for some even the head and lower part of the face- allowed much to be concealed. If they are mistrustful, the blame is not wholly on them. Her people dwell close to Mordor because no land west would have them. If so many joined Sauron's army and so easily, it was because they were fed.

As darkness had drawn into the west, many place had cut off all trade with their eastern neighbors, claiming that they could not know where their money or goods were going, and they did not want to support Mordor in any way. Her village’s soil had always grown things poorly, another advantage of living so close to a stronghold of evil, and one fall, the ground had turned hostile, killing their harvest. So many of their western neighbors did not trade food with them, thus her people starved, and turned to Sauron in greater numbers than they would have before.

After clearing the gate, their group is forced to dismount, and lead their horses on foot through the streets because they are filled with such a great throng of people. Though it is spring, the air, as they move towards the top gets colder. While many peoples in the crowd look different from each other, as different lands are converging on Minas Tirith for tomorrow’s crowning, their looks are far more removed from the Easterlings then they are from each other.

In Lelia's childhood she went with her merchant parents to meet western traders. One of the children that came alone with the foreign caravan had called her skin dirty, and Lelia had punched him, and had been scolded for nearly ruining her parent’s planned business deal. But she had only hit him because there was no equivalent insult to dirty for light skin. What else could she have done?

Their guide drops them off at an inn, telling them that they will be taken care of and escorted to the ceremony tomorrow. He seems glad to get away, nervous. The entire trip he acted as if he thought that they could jump and kill him at any moment. Which they absolutely can. But very few in their group would.

At their lodgings, they are given a private room to dine in- who knows if this is courtesy to them or to the other guests - and treated to many free stares and questions as well. A serving girl asks if they would like to remove their head wraps and a woman in their group, Intisar asks her if she usually removes her dress in front of strangers, but in their language so she does not understand. From their perspective, she is the one being rude, but the mores of modesty are different here. No one shows their upper arms, and their women do not reveal the outlines of their legs, but everywhere are faces, faces, faces. An assault of fair skin, blue eyes, blonde hair, and sharp noses.

 

Their host, another man, middle aged this time, speaks about everything- now about a woman from Rohan who disguised herself as a man, to come here and join the fight with her people and did great deeds.

“ ‘...I am no man!” Eowyn says and kills his mount, and him too, though she nearly died, and when her body was born to the house of healing, they asked if even the women of Rohan had come to help and her brother said nay, only she. And now she is healed and betrothed, though she is no longer a warrior but a healer now, and she will not fight anymore…’”

Another in their group, Sayed, mentions his wife in passing, which seems to shock their host- the fact that their people have the concept of lasting commitments or the same morality.

“What utter nonsense,” says Intisar to Lelia later, when they have finally been released from his boisterous storytelling and shown their chambers. They are sharing a room, as space in all lodging is limited, which is fine- Lelia does not wish to be alone in this strange city. Her friend is referring to the main story of the evening. “...that she should have to disguise herself as a man in the first place, in order to gain admittance to the battle.”

In Sauron's army, Intisar had been a commander, high ranking, not hiding her sex, leading both men and women. When the recruiters came to their villages, both had joined in equal numbers. This was not unusual, not because of extraordinary circumstances, but rather expected. For the women to refuse, or the men to prevent them would have been unthinkable. Yet another difference between their cultures: the ridged lines between men’s and women’s worlds. As far as an eastern women disguising herself as a man, that would have been difficult, for the same clothing is worn by both sexes.

When learning Westron, the constant delineation into he or she poses difficulty for many pupils. Being a man or women is so unimportant to their culture that different pronouns for them do not exist. Thus, many of their historical figures are of unknown sex, as many names can be neutral as well.

Lelia had served in the war too, though not in a high capacity. She had been a scout, and while returning from a given mission had seen Mordor’s destruction from afar. After that, she had simply gone home. There was no one left to punish deserters. Everything was gone.

They were not an army of conscripts. Sauron had no great need of bodies- being able to create Orcs and Uruk-kai with no great loss to himself. But the Easterlings were intelligent, stealthy, knew the surrounding area, and he would take those that would, and those that volunteered.

Out of everyone who had joined, none that Lelia knows went out of allegiance to Sauron. Sauron’s war was a means for food, and security, or to some better off people, for glory. It was the Easterling way to use whatever means necessary in order to advance. In this case, it was fighting under the eye. But it was the future that they were thinking about, when harrying the men of the west. Orcs were not intelligent. They did not function well as leaders. They could not be the ones to rule the world. But their people could, and many saw this war as a way out of the years of ruin they had had endure, scraping out a living on the edge of hell.

Intisar had been one of those people. More well off, and with room to spare for ambition. The last time Lelia had seen her, before the end of the war, she had been reviewing troops, riding on horseback, in front of the lines of people. It had been from afar. Lelia had been at the top of a watchtower; scouts were given duties watching the inside as well as the outside. Her friend from childhood had looked so strong. So brave. Her name means triumph, and in that moment, Lelia had believed that Intisar could against anyone.

And now the war is over, and she will have to do something else. They all will. Lelia had been a weaver, years and years ago, it seemed.

There is a legend in the east, telling of two wizards, dressed all in blue, who resembled the Easterlings, with all except for their piercing blue eyes. Ages ago, they roused the people against Sauron, which resulted in a rebellion, a rebellion which failed, and caused the dark lord to tighten his grip on the east, killing many, and enslaving thousands more. The blue wizards were never seen again. Perhaps they had been killed or had abandoned the cause. While the people of the east suffered greatly for their attempt to drive the eye from their lands, the word went out in the west that they had slain the blue wizards, out of loyalty to Sauron.

 _What nonsense._ Indeed.

Night comes and goes. If Lelia had looked at the sky, she would see that the stars are in their same places. She did not look outside. She sleeps, and dreams of nothing.

The place the people of the east are lead to for the coronation on the following morning, is far enough away from the new king that they cannot try anything, but close enough they are technically in a reserved place. The ceremony changes into elvish, a tongue that those in the east would never suffer to learn- Westron was enough- and Lelia’s attention wanders. Her gaze turns east, not to Mordor, but past it, to a land of dust, plains, deserts, and the beautiful turquoise sea of Rhun and beyond that, lands stretching off further east, too unimportant to be included on these peoples’ maps, but beautiful places nonetheless even if they were not inked by the cartographers of the west.

When this is over, she and Intisar and the rest of them will return home to rebuild- grain will grow better there now that the evil has left- and maybe there can finally be peace, if the west will leave them too it.

 

 


End file.
